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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



VERSE AND P K O S E 



WRITINGS 



MARY LEE DEMAREST, 



AUTHOR OF ' MY AIN COUNTREE AND OTHER VERSES. 



GATHERED AND PUBLISHED BY HER HUSBAND. 



A gentle, loving, trustful heart ; 

A woman's wit, with childhood's grace: 
The pure soul shining in her face — 

A nature above art." 

—Page 355- 




PASSAIC DAILY NEWS OFFICE, 

PASSAIC, N. J. 
1888. 






COPYRIGHT, 1888, BY 
THEODORE FRELINGHUYSEN DEMAREST. 



T. MOREY & RON. 

Electrolupers niul Printers, 
Greenfield, Mass. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGB 
3 

106 
121 

127 
146 

152 



Links, • • • " ' 

Chamouny and the Mer De Glace, 

How Gerty Morse said " Yes," 

Southern Violets, . • • • 

The Joyful Sufferer, . • • * 

The Story of Adjai, . • • ' 

Andreas Hlaverti, . • • * 

A Morning in the Homes of China-Town, • ^S^ 

The Acid Test, • » • ' ' 

Casting, or Carrying, 

Christ in Art, . • • • * 

He carries them up hill, . 

Hope Archer's Parable, 

How a Christmas Card Saved a Life, . 

An Incident of the Week of Prayer, 

I Surrender, . • • • * 

A Nineteenth Century Barrel of Meal, . -195 

Redemption of Strays, • • ■ * 

Spending-Money, . • • • • 

Spiritual Malaria, . • • * ' 

M 



. 165 
170 

175 
177 
180 
185 
188 
192 



202 
204 
214 



iv - CONTENTS. 

I'AGE 

A Story for little Nan, . . . .216 

Prayer-Meeting Varnish, . . . .221 

England at Garfield's Grave, . . .228 

Guy Fawkes' Day, ..... 238 

Gifford's Wife, . . . . . .241 

The Wind and the Whirlwind, . . . 258 

When the Even was come, . . . -275 

A Domestic Mission, ..... 280 

The Soldier's Comfort, .... 289 

Soldier, a Letter for You, . . .294 

Indelible Ink, ...... 299 

Pine Knots from Old Carolina, . . . 306 

Foreign Fragments, . . . . -311 

Marburg on the Lahn, . . . 311 

The Fackel Zug, . . . . -312 

The Jerusalem Chamber, . . . 314 

Lord Mayor's Day, . . . .316 

Hyde Park, ..... 

From Rio to Petropolis, 

Buenos Ayres, . . . . . 319 

Sunny Memories of Mentone, . . 320 

Reflections, ...... 324 

My Joy, . . . . . .324 

Unto You, Gentiles, .... 326 

He Saved Others: Himself He cannot save, 328 
One Faith, . . . . -331 

Little Helpers, . . -33^ 



3^7 
318 



CONTENTS. V 

Reflections — Continued. 

The Lion and the Adder, . . . » 333 

Give Place, ..... 334 

I AM NO Poet, ...... 335 

Thy Homesick Child, .... 336 

Homeless, ....... 337 

Lift up the Christ, ..... 338 

My Jericho, ...... 339 

Who and Whence, ..... 340 

Thro' my Skylight, ..... 342 

Syrian Children, ..... 343 

The Rifted Cloud, ..... 346 

Spes Salutis, ...... 346 

Cum Scuto, vel Super, .... 348 

1865, 349 

Garfield, ....... 351 

At Eventide, ...... 353 

Ministering, ...... 353 

A Christmas Carol, . . .' . . 354 

Balsam— Balm — Everlasting, .... 354 

Goldilocks and Silver Hair . . . 355 

My Love, ....... 355 

My Rest, ...... 357 

A Night Watch, ...... 358 

The Last Thing, ..... 360 

Thro' Gloom to Glory, . . . . . 362 

Impotence, ...... 364 

Dumb, ....... 365 



Vi CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Pearls and Pebbles, ..... 365 

Under the Snows, ..... 366 

Bonny Doon, . . . • • 368 

Poppies growing on the ruins of a Roman Villa, 369 

Outward Bound, ...... 370 

Two Sunsets, . . . . . .372 

Foreign Missions Report, .... 374 

For the Master's Use, .... 379 

Hampton-Court Vine, ..... 3S3 

Y. M. C. A., 3^5 

Centennial, ...... 386 

Bachelor's Soliloquy , .... 387 

Double Entendre, ..... 389 

The Trooper's Death Song, . . . 390 
Appendix (War Letter), . . . -391 



EDITOR'S NOTE. 



In compliance with numerous requests, some of 
the writings of the late author of " My Ain Countree " 
have been collected in this volume. In searching 
among the manuscripts, many were found, in which 
her dear pen had been laid down, before completion, 
— never to be resumed. Several of these have, how- 
ever, not been omitted. Pleasure is experienced in 
acknowledging, here, the courtesy of Publishers, who 
have kindly permitted the reproduction of articles 
heretofore printed. Their names are given at the 
close, wherever known. With a special feeling of 
calmness, are committed to the hands of many 
friends these echoes of the loved voice of One at 
rest. The reviewer's shaft may speed, but not per- 
turb. 

T. F. D. 

N. Y., Aug., 1888. 



GATHERED WRITINGS 



MARY LEE DEIAREST. 



LINKS. — PART FIRST. 
CHAPTER I. 

AT THE OAKS. 

All linked together in an endless chain, 
For life or death, for blessing or for bane : 
Dear God, so lead us that our lives may be 
Strong links to bind some other souls to thee! 

"Very well, do as you wish, wife — Catskill, 
Lebanon, Narragansett, or Richfield. But to an 
old-fashioned man like me, it does seem like tempt- 
ing Providence to leave a home like this, in such 
blazing hot weather, and pitch ourselves in among a 
crowd of strangers, in a big hotel." 

Mr. Norris and his wife were standing by the bay- 
window of the library, one summer evening in the 
end of June. 

The grand old trees, which had rightly given their 
name to the place, stood out clear and bold in the 
soft moonlight, and cast their massive shadows on 

(3) 



4 LINKS. 

the beautiful lawn, sloping down to the margin of the 
silver river. 

" I know, George ! I'm sure we couldn't have a 
lovelier home than The Oaks ; but I do think a little 
change is beneficial once in a while, and you know 
Jessie is fond of society, and is so pretty " — 

" Yes, yes, between Mrs. Hammond, Saratoga 
and Washington, the silly child has nearly lost her 
head. But remember, wife, two things are settled : 
Where one goes, all go. I won't have the children 
and Hope Archer shipped off to some farm-house, 
or left here without us again. And another thing, — 
Jessie must do without a French lady's maid this 
summer. I'm not made of money ; and what's more, 
if I could afford it, I wouldn't. It's high time she 
should learn to be of some use to herself and others." 

" George, I do think you are hard on Jessie " — 

" No, I am not. You spoil her by giving in to her 
nonsense too much, wife. I know one thing : she'll 
never be the beautiful woman her mother was — and 
is," said Mr. Norris, affectionately putting his arm 
around the wife, of whose beauty he was still as 
proud as when he married her twenty-two years 
before. 

He was ten years older than his wife — a hale, 
hearty, silver-haired man of fifty, whose influence in 
the community was due far more to his character 
than to his culture. Much to the disgust of his 
daughter Jessie, he was known throughout the coun- 
try as " Squire " Norris. Though not a Christian 
himself, he respected those who honored Christ as 
much as he despised those who he thought were 



LINKS. 5 

shams. Affectionate and kind, as he was, to all his 
children, Jessie was the only one with whom he had 
little sympathy. Carroll, Isabel, Grace, Harry — 
all were nearer to their father than his beautiful 
eldest daughter. 

On account of the extreme heat, Mr. Norris had 
vetoed any further study on the part of Grace and 
Hal until September ; so Hope Archer's occupation, 
for the time, was gone. One morning, a few days 
before they were to leave for Narragansett, Jessie 
suddenly entered her mother's dressing-room, where 
Mrs. Norris and Isabel were in busy consultation 
over sea-shore and mountain wardrobes. 

" Mamma, of course you are going to take Estelle ! 
I cannot possibly get along without a maid. You 
know I cannot do up my hair in that new way my- 
self, and I want her to drape my dresses every 
evening. Isabel said something about Estelle's not 
going, I think it would be a downright shame ! " 

" My dear, your father does not understand such 
things ; he says he cannot afford it. There are so 
many of us, and you are not contented to go to a 
quiet house. He wishes Hope Archer to go with us 
this summer. I suppose she does need the change." 

" I think it is too mean," said Jessie, angrily, — 
"the fuss my father makes over that girl! Well, if 
she is to go, mamma, you must just tell her she is to 
help me dress every evening. She is quick enough, 
and knows how things ought to look ; and then, it 
will keep her out of the way, too." 

"I do think you are too bad, Jess," broke in 
Isabel. "You know Hope is always ready to help 



6 LINKS. 

us. She often makes me ashamed of our selfishness. 
There ! I don't care if you are angry. She never 
puts herself forward ; you know that, very well ; and 
if people like her, it is because they cannot help it, 
she is so bright and lovable." 

" Hush, girls ! I do wish you would not dispute 
so. I dare say Hope will be only too glad to make 
herself useful ; probably will feel more free to go if 
she understands that there is something definite for 
her to do." 

A quick knock at the door announced the little 
governess herself, who had come to speak to Mrs. 
Norris about her own plans for the summer vacation. 
In the adjoining room, perched up in the wide win- 
dow seat, sat Hope's pupil, Grace, busy in exploring 
" Nellie's Silver Mine ;" and yet with ears and eyes 
wide open to everything that concerned her dear 
Miss Archer. 

" My dear," said Mrs. Norris, '^ we are just talking 
of our plans. We shall be away at Narragansett and 
Catskill for six or seven weeks, and Mr. Norris wishes 
the children — and you — to have holiday until Septem- 
ber ; so we shall be glad to have you go with us, and 
you can find little ways to make 3^ourself useful to 
the girls and myself " (" Not to me, mamma, if you 
please," interrupted Isabel, with hot cheeks), "if you 
feel delicate about going otherwise. We are not to 
take any maid ; there are so many of us we can get 
along by helping each other, and I suppose you will 
not care to go down in the evenings very often — I 
mean when there is anything special going on — on 
account of your mourning, my dear ! " 



LINKS. 7 

Hope stood quietly until Mrs. Norris ceased. " I 
thank you, Mrs. Norris, for thinking about me," said 
she, simply. " But I would much prefer to remain in 
Norriston until your return." 

" But, my dear, we could not leave you at The 
Oaks with only Griffin, you know. She is a good 
old soul, but no company for you. My son and his 
friends will be coming and going until his vacation, 
and it would be quite, quite unpleasant, and out of 
the question, you know." 

Hope's color rose, as she unconsciously drew her 
figure to its full height, and looking steadily at Car- 
roll's mother, said, quietly : " You quite misunder- 
stand me, Mrs. Norris. I could not possibly remain 
at The Oaks. You forget Miss Winchester's claim 
upon me, and that I must stay with her, if you do not 
need my services as governess. I came to speak to 
you about it." 

*' Very well ; oh ! very well, my dear. It is strange 
I had not thought of it before, and I am glad " — her 
manner had lost the tone of patronage — " she will 
have the pleasure of your company, since we must 
forego it." 

Hope's lips wore a proud smile as she left the 
room, saying, to herself : " How could she ask me in 
that cold-blooded way ! It was Jessie's work, I am 
sure. And then to think I could possibly be willing 
to stay at The Oaks ! If she could only believe I 
can't bear her darling Carroll — but she is so proud 
of him, the poor mother, she cannot think that possi- 
ble." Hope stopped short in her soliloquy, startled 
to find in her heart a wicked little wish to punish Car- 



8 LINKS. 

roll Norris for being the occasion of such a mortifi- 
cation. 

When the sun was low that afternoon, she started to 
walk down to see Miss Winchester, her dear "Cousin 
Bess," the only friend who had proved faithful dur- 
ing these later years of her lonely orphan life. Her 
pride had not yet recovered from its wound, but she 
had a brave spirit, and was not in the least degree 
morbid. She had thought sometimes it would be 
very hard to stay at The Oaks, except for the steady 
fatherly kindness of the old Squire, who had known 
and admired her own father, and for the loyal affec- 
tion of Grace and Harry. 

Since Isabel's return from school, Hope had been 
much happier, for her pleasant companionship was a 
great relief after Jessie's arrogance and Carroll's per- 
sistent attention. Conscious of her own uprightness, 
she could bear even Mrs. Norris' occasional slights^ 
for they were always traceable to her evident desire 
to prevent Carroll's " foolishness." But now her 
heart was sad and sore, and she felt very forlorn and 
homeless. 

As she walked along the sheltered wood-path, think- 
ing of her troubles and trying very hard to " cast her 
burden on the Lord," a carriage came down the drive, 
and Squire Norris' hearty voice called out : "Why, 
Miss Hope ! are you running away? So — jump in, 
my dear. Going to Miss Winchester's ? All right, 
I'll take you there and bring you back. Are you 
nearly ready for the sea-shore and the mountains, — 
bathing suit, mountain-dresses, and all that sort of 
thing? What ! not going ? " — as Hope told him she 



LINKS. 9 

was going to stay with Miss Winchester. " Non- 
sense ; you need a change, child. You're not used 
to all this confinement and bother of teaching." 

" I do thank you very much — don't think me un- 
grateful, please, dear Mr. Norris ; but you know every 
thing is so different. It would be very hard to go to 
Narragansett now. We used to go." Hope's flushed 
face and trembling voice pleaded well for her. 

"To be sure; yes, yes, I understand. Wonder I 
didn't think of it ! That's all right. Well, you 
must go somewhere. Miss Winchester will take you^ 
I am sure. You shall have a check — that's the square 
thing of course, since you won't go with us ; and 
mind now, you don't give the money to the mission- 
aries, child, instead of going off somewhere, to get 
the roses back." 

" You are ver}', very good, sir," said Hope ; " but 
please, please don't ! I have plenty of money." 

"You have ? Well, you're the very first woman I 
ever heard say so. Now, remember and tell Miss 
W^inchester that I say you need a change, and it will 
do her good, too ; see if it doesn't." 

Hope did not return to The Oaks that evening. 
Miss Winchester sent a little message to Mrs. Norris^ 
begging that she might stay with her until the morn- 
ing, and the Squire's hearty assent promised that 
everything should be pleasant for Hope, as far as he 
could make it. 

" Stay as long as you like, my dear ; only we do 
all miss you, whenever you are away." 

" I will come up in the morning to help pack ; 
there will be so much to do if you go on Thursday.'' 

" Very well, my dear. Good-night." 



lO LINKS. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE SAME. 

Mrs. Norris received Miss Winchester's message 
coolly, saying : " Oh ! very well." But Jessie ex- 
claimed in open ill-temper: " I wish, to goodness, 
her dear Miss Winchester would keep her forever ! 
Then perhaps we might afford to take a lady's maid, 
like other people." 

"What's all this? Jessie, if you cannot speak 
more properly, you must be silent ! What has Hope 
Archer to do with a lady's maid, wife t '^ asked the 
Squire, rather sharply. 

"Why, nothing," said Mrs. Norris, uneasily; "ex- 
cept that I said, when I asked her to go with us, 
that we were not to take any maid ; that we would 
help each other — " 

"And that she might be lady's maid to Jessie," in- 
terrupted Grace, saucily; "and that she couldn't 
stay at The Oaks while we are gone, because of Car- 
roll. But didn't she look pretty when she heard that ! 
She looked just like a queen," said Grace, reck- 
lessly. 

" Go to your room, Grace ! Your insolence is in- 
sufferable. It would be well if Miss Archer had 
taught you to honor your mother and behave your- 
self." Mrs. Norris' voice trembled with anger, and 
her face flushed painfully. 

"Oh! mamma, I am sorry," said Grace, the tears 
filling her eyes. Miss Hope does tell me how bad it 



LINKS. 1 1 

is to speak so, and I do try to keep my tongue still ; 
but I haven't now! Do forgive me, mamma — 
please." Grace stood a moment, waiting for some 
gentler word from her mother ; but she only repeated : 
" Go ! " and the child, turning, rushed up stairs, and 
flung herself sobbing beside her bed. 

When she had gone, Mr. Norris said, gently (he 
was respectful to his wife, even when most angry) : 
" We will talk this matter over by-and-by, wife," and 
left the room. 

Then Carroll turned to his mother, and said, indig- 
nantly : " If there is any truth in Grace's statement, 
you can scarcely expect a lady — and Hope Archer 
is a lady— to be willing to return here. But, if she 
goes. I go, too ! " So saying he walked out of the 
open window, and, lighting a cigar, strolled away 
through the shrubbery to the river. 

Poor Mrs. Norris burst into tears. Carroll was 
her idol. 

'■ Much ado about nothing," said Jessie, scornfully, 
as she swept into the adjoining room, and began to 
play one of Chopin's Nocturnes. 

Isabel came up to her mother, and put her arms 
around her. " Mamma, don't feel so bad. I think 
Hope will stay. I am sure I should be sorry enough 
to have her go. Grace was very naughty to-night, 
but she is entirely different from what she was a 
year ago. Carroll is silly about Hope ; but she 
snubs him so, I think he must soon see that it is of 
no use. He was angry, and Grace did exaggerate. 
I'll tell him so, by-and-by." 

"My good, helpful child 1 " said her mother affec- 



1 2 LINKS. 

tionately. " I am going to my room now. No, I 
don't need anything. My head aches, but I shall be 
best alone." 

Isabel walked into the music-room, where Jessie 
was playing in the moonlight. Isabel was the only 
member of the family, except her father, for whom 
Jessie had any respect, and the few plain home-truths 
which the beautiful, haughty Miss Norris ever heard 
came from the lips of her younger sister. 

" I am ashamed of you, Jessie," said Isabel, slow- 
ly. "After getting mamma into trouble, it would 
have been only honest to have borne your share of 
the blame. You know mamma will do almost any- 
thing to please you." 

" I am not to blame for that, am I ? " said Jessie, 
coolly. " I have a strong will, and she has a weak 
one ; that's all." 

" No," said Isabel, " that is not all. Mamma 
wants to do right, but you almost always get her to 
dcf wrong. She is so fond and proud of you, it is all 
the meaner if you don't own up and tell papa and 
Carroll what you said to mother about Hope's wait- 
ing on you. If you don't tell, I shall." 

" Very well. I shall do no such thing. Papa has 
never been good to me since Mrs. Hammond was 
sent away, and I am not going to make any confes- 
sions to him. Besides, you will remember the 
pretty little speech which made Carroll particularly 
angry was not of my suggestion," replied Jessie, tri- 
umphantly. 

"I do wish, Jessie," said Isabel, slowly, "you 
would try to help mother instead of harming her." 



LINKS. 13 

"Nonsense! I am not one of your goody sort 
of people. But you are a better girl than I am, Issy," 
said Jessie, relenting a little. " I might try not to 
get mother into scrapes, I suppose, just by way of 
variety, and to oblige you : " — with which rather neg- 
ative admission Isabel was obliged to be content. 
Indeed, it meant more than it seemed. 

Two years ago, a Mrs. Hammond had come to The 
Oaks as governess, on the recommendation of some 
friends of Mrs. Norris. She was, as they described 
her, a very attractive and accomplished person. She 
was also an unprincipled, strong-willed woman, and 
soon held the household — the Squire and Carroll be- 
ing absent on business — in almost entire subjection to 
her will and ways. Isabel distrusted her from the 
first, and bravely resisted her influence, striving to 
open her mother's eyes, but in vain. Mr. Norris had 
not been at home a week before he quietly dismissed 
the lady, with salary up to the full term of her en- 
gagement. Jessie stormed and raged in vain. She 
had been especially charmed by Mrs. Hammond, 
admiring her from the first, and had adopted, with 
almost fatal facility, the views of the older woman. 

So it was not strange that, when her father sum- 
marily installed Hope Archer as governess to the 
younger children, Jessie determined to make her life 
as uncomfortable as possible, nor that she succeeded 
admirably for a while. In her arrogance she had 
been ready to class Hope and her mother with the 
"weak-minded," for whom she felt the deepest con- 
tempt. Yet there was still in Jessie's spoiled nature 
a true instinct which recognized goodness ; and 



14 LINKS. 

Hope's brave and faithful life was beginning to in- 
fluence her unconsciously. " Mamma is fond of 
ready-made clothing — in morals ; anything to save 
trouble. But Hope is different. There is nothing 
shabby or slipshod, or that doesn't wear well about 
her," at last owned Jessie, one day, to Isabel. 
" Don't imagine I am fond of her ! I am not ; but I 
am sure, if her position had been mine, I should 
have shirked and cheated and been revengeful many 
a time." 

Hope, however, was very far from imagining that 
Jessie had watched her so closely. It would have 
amazed her greatly if she could have heard this hon- 
est verdict on her life. She told Cousin Bess, in the 
quiet talk they had that evening, that Jessie sometimes 
was very provoking, sometimes very pleasant ; but 
generally she treated her as if she wereti't there. 

When Hope returned in the morning, she was con- 
scious of a subtle, exhilarating change of atmosphere 
at The Oaks. The social thunder shower had cleared 
the air, leaving the sunshine brighter, and the earth 
fairer, than it had been before. To speak without 
metaphor, Mrs. Norris was affectionate and Jessie 
was civil, while Isabel, Grace and Hal were warmer 
than ever in their welcome. Mrs. Norris felt relieved 
and grateful to Hope for being forgiving, andcoming 
back pleasantly ; and, with the readiness of an impres- 
sionable nature, was glad to make amends, as far as 
she could, for the slights of the previous day. 

Grace was eager to be with her dear Miss Hope as 
much as possible during the two days that were left, 
while Harry openly declared he wished Miss Hope 
were going instead of Jess. He wanted her to show 



LINKS. L$ 

him all the jolly places she had told him about ; and /le 
would take her out beyond the breakers if she'd go — 
he wasn't a bit afraid ! " Which was not at all aston- 
ishing," Hope told him, laughing, " since he had 
never been within sight of the surf ! " 

While Hope was busy in Grace's little room, sort- 
ing clothing and packing the sea-side trunk, Grace 
found a chance to confess that she had been very 
naughty to mamma last night — " dreadfully saucy 
and mean ; " and had been sent up to her room in 
disgrace. 

" After I had been trying so hard to get the better 
of my horrid tongue ! Wasn't it dreadful, Miss Hope ? 
I did think mamma never would forgive me, and I 
couldn't do anything to let her know how awfully 
bad I felt. Then I just remembered what you told 
me the other day when we were reading about Peter 
in prison — how he was lying between two soldiers 
bound fast with two chains, and the keepers were 
before the door. Don't you remember? You said 
that no one could ever be so miserable, in such a 
strong prison or under such heavy chains, but that 
God could set him free, and that Peter's deliverance 
was in answer to prayer. So I did — I mean I asked 
God ; and oh ! Miss Hope, do you know mof/ier came 
to my room before she went to sleep — she had a dread- 
ful headache, too — and kissed me and said — said 
some lovely things to me ! I know I never loved her 
so much as I do now. Do you think it was wrong 
to be sure God had forgiven me when he made mam- 
ma come and say she forgave me, and to kiss me 
good-night ? " 



lu LINKS. 

CHAPTER III. 

BESIDE THE SEA. 

Grace and Harry Norris cared for the sea and 
the rocks, not for the society of Narragansett. 

" The boys and girls are too grown-up for us," re- 
marked Grace in a letter to Hope Archer. "I do 
think it is horrid, Miss Hope, the way almost all the 
children talk and flirt and carry on. They don't like 
me one bit. I don't care much — except that I am 
afraid it's partly because of my horrid tongue, you 
know. It's awfully hard for me to speak the truth in 
love. I do get so boiling over, when people say 
mean things, and then I don't think or care what I 
say ; and so I have to be sorry afterwards. I do 
wonder if the apostle James had a great deal of 
•trouble with his tongue ! I read a verse in his epistle 
that discouraged me dreadfully yesterday. You know 
it says that all savage beasts can be tamed, but ' the 
tongue no man can tame.' Then I remembered you 
told me to be sure that, if I loved and trusted the 
Lord Jesus, all God's strength was mine — all ready 
and w^aiting for me to use, I mean ; and that Christ 
had fought the battle, and won it for all who love 
him ; so I have picked up courage again. . . -. I was 
dreadfully afraid for a while that Harry was going to 
* be friends ' with those foolish boys, but now he is 
disgusted with them, and stays with me and two or 
three very nice children — Blanche and Paul and 
Mary Harvey. We went, with them and Isabel and 



LINKS. 17 

Captain Harvey, over to Wakefield the other day, 
and had such a jolly time, and had our pictures 
taken, too. I like Captain Harvey better than any 
other gentleman here. He is splendid-looking, and it 
seems to me he likes children better than young 
ladies. But all the young ladies admire him ever 
so much. Jessie was dreadfully provoked that she 
didn't go along with us, instead of Issy ; but you 
know Jess never goes with us children anywhere, and 
Issy does, whenever mamma can spare her. Oh ! 
dear Miss Hope, how I do wish you were here ! 
You don't know how much I love you ! " 

Hope could not read "between the lines," nor 
guess the secret of the chivalric devotion of little 
Grace for herself, nor the very good reason there 
was for relief that Harry had become " disgusted " 
with Ben Howard and his friends. It happened in 
this wise : 

One morning, during the second week of their 
stay at Narragansett, Grace and Harry were together 
on the beach. The tide was low, and they were 
walking towards Indian Rock. 

" I say, Grace, isn't it just jolly down here? Oh ! 
there comes a stunner." 

The children rushed out of the way of the in-roll- 
ing breaker, laughing and excited. 

" Harry/' said Grace, with unconscious pleading 
in her tone, "isn't this better than being with Ben 
Howard and those other boys "i I don't think they're 
a bit nice." 

" May be it is," replied Harry, cautiously. " But, 
Grace, I want to tell you something — it's an awful 
2 



1 8 LINKS. 

secret, and you must never tell as long as you're a 
mortal man — woman, I mean." 

" Nonsense ! Harry, what do you mean ? You 
do like mysteries so, and I can't bear them." 

" Very well, if you don't choose to promise," said 
Harry, offended. " But it's something about some- 
body you love very, very much. It's about Miss 
Hope." 

" Oh ! well," said Grace, relenting as far as her 
thirteen years cared to yield to Harry's eleven. " If 
it's nothing I ought to tell — that mamma ought to 
know about — I promise." 

" All right," said Harry, mysteriously. " Ben 
Howard says his sister Hetty flirted awfully with Mr. 
Wayne Halsey, when he was engaged to our Miss 
Hope, and she told him that Miss Hope liked our 
Carroll ; and then — I forget it all, but there was a — a 
— devilish row." 

" Stop ! Harry Norris. Don't you say another 
word ! You're talking just like that bad boy, Ben 
Howard, swagger and all ! Oh, Harry, I didn't think 
you'd ever swear ! " 

"I didn't," said Harry, stoutly, though Grace's 
sorrowful face made him uncomfortable. " That 
isn't swearing. Swearing is taking God's name in 
vain. I'm sure 'devilish ' isn't that, by a long shot 1 
It's just — the opposite," replied he, triumphantly. 

"Harry," said Grace, quietly now, — for she had 
asked God to help her isay what was right and true, 
and lo keep her tongue from speaking evil, — " Har- 
ry, perhaps I can't quite tell you why it's wrong, if 



LINKS. 19 

it isn't really swearing. But you know you wouldn't 
say it before papa, or mamma, or Miss Hope ! " 

^' Well, what if I wouldn't ! " said Harry, gruffly. 
" Mrs. Hammond used to say it, and I heard Jess 
say it once, too ! " 

"Don't, Hal, dear! You know what's right, and 
it's mean to make excuses that others do such things. 
I think this is the reason why it's wrong," said Grace, 
slowly : " God tells us in the Bible that the devil is 
strong, and hates God and hates us ; that he goes 
about as a roaring lion, you know ; and God means 
us to resist him, and to hate all his evil \vays. Now, 
when Ben said the trouble his sister had made for 
Miss Hope was — that kind of a row — he didn't mean 
that he hated it because it was a cruel, fiendish thing, 
but only that there was a very great deal of trouble. 
So it seems to me, it's a kind of contempt of God to 
treat light^^, or make sport of something he says is 
wicked and awful." 

*' All right, Grace, I won't say it any more. But 
it's true, I tell you, about Ben's sister. I said I 
thought it was a mean thing, but Ben said it was all 
square; that 'everything was fair in love and war;' 
that his sister liked Mr. Halsey and couldn't bear 
Miss Hope, and meant to get Halsey away from her ; 
but Ben said ' Hetty didn't quite come it that time,' 
for Halsey found out she told lies and flirted, and 
then he was so awfully sorry and ashamed he went 
off, and nobody knows where he is." 

"And Ben Howard told all that aboyt his sister ! " 
said Grace, her face glowing with scorn and anger. 



20 LINKS. 

" He ought to have been so ashamed of her that he 
could never speak of it to a living soul." 

*' Well he wasn't," said Harry. " He seemed to 
think it was smart." 

" It isn't ; it's a mean, wicked, cowardly thing, 
Harry. I don't think children have any business to 
be talking about such things j but I'm sure it isn't any 
more right or ho7iorable to steal a girl's lover than it 
is to steal her money or her watch, and it's ten thou- 
sand times worse and meaner," said Grace, indignant- 
ly. " Poor, dear Miss Hope ! Oh," — 

Harry and Grace turned the corner of a projecting 
rock, and suddenly came upon Captain Harvey lying 
on the sands with a book beside him. The quick 
color rushed to Grace's cheeks, and Harry, too, was 
a little uncomfortable. Captain Harvey looked up, 
took off his cap, and said, quietly : 

" Won't you sit down, Miss Grace — and Harry ? " 
The children seated themselves silently. " I didn't 
wish to hear what I was not meant to," said he, look- 
ing with his frank, kind eyes at the flushed face beside 
him. " I only heard a few sentences ; but, Harry, 
my boy, let me tell you, you cannot do better than 
remember, all your life, what this little sister of yours 
was telling you." 

" Then it isn't true — what Ben Howard said ? " 
asked Harry, eagerly; "everything isn't fair in love 
and war ? " 

" No ! " answered Captain Harvey, emphatically. 
■*' Right and honor are the same, the world over, to 
an honest man. That bad proverb has been made 
an excuse for a great deal of trickery and treachery, 



LINKS. 2 1 

of which no honorable man, soldier or civilian, would 
be guilty." 

*' Grace says that we children oughtn't to talk 
about such things," said Harry, reluctantly; "but I 
don't see why not ? " 

" Perhaps your sister will tell us why," said Cap- 
tain Harvey, gently. 

" I don't think mamma and Issy would like it, one 
thing," said Grace; "and then it seems somehow 
mean to be talking and listening to things, even if 
they are true, about grown-up people that we wouldn't 
dare to do before them." 

" Perfectly right," said Captain Harvey, with a 
bright smile ; while he thought within himself : " An 
honest, honorable little girl — not a bit like the gay 
Miss Jessie. I wondered if Miss Isabel has the 
same nice notions ? " 

One afternoon, a week after this little episode, 
Captain Harvey noticed a sail-boat about to put off, 
and heard Grace's eager voice calling : " Oh, Cap- 
tain Harvey, won't you come with us ? " 

Jessie added a more dignified but very cordial in- 
vitation, and Captain Harvey replied courteously: 
"With pleasure, if I can find some one to carry 
a message to my sisters. I was on my way to see 
if they wanted to walk to the post-office with me." 

As Captain Harvey joined the party, Jessie intro- 
duced him to her friends. Miss Marvin and her 
brother. 

Mr. Marvin, or "the Hon. Philip Marvin, of 
Liddegate Hall, England," as he subscribed himself 
in the hotel register, was a good-looking, somewhat 



2 3 LINKS. 

supercilious Englishman, who, in spite of his insular 
belief in the superiority of everything on " the other 
side," was very much charmed with the beautiful 
Jessie. The addition of another gentleman to the 
party, especially "one of those handsome West 
Point fellows," as he grudgingly admitted to himself, 
was not very welcome to Mr. Marvin. 

Captain Harvey turned to the skipper as they 
sailed away : " Aren't we going to have a blow 
before sunset ? I'm not much of a sailor, but it 
looks to me like it." The man muttered something 
in a surly manner, and Mr. Marvin volunteered the 
remark that there were " enough sailors on board to 
manage that little craft," and proceeded to entertain 
Miss Norris with an account of his cruises in his 
yacht, "The West Wind." 

Grace was delighted to have a talk with Captain 
Harvey. " I only wish Mary and Paul and Blanche 
were here ! Did they bathe this morning ? You 
don't know how stupid it is ; papa went to New 
York yesterday and won't be back till Saturday," 
said Grace, confidingly, " and mamma is so afraid ; 
she said she would have no peace if we went to 
bathe without papa." 

" If she would trust 3^ou with me, I should be very 
glad to take charge of you — one at a time " — said 
Captain Harvey, pleasantly. 

" Oh ! I think she would. That would be splendid. 
But I didn't mean to Jwit ; I never thought of it ! " 
Grace looked up frankly, to meet his amused smile. 

" I never should imagine you guilty of hinting, 
Miss Grace. But tell me," said he, in an under- 



LINKS. 23 

tone, — "this is not the boat and the skipper your 
father employs ? " 

" No," said Grace, in the same tone. " I don't 
know anything about it, except that Jessie asked me 
to go, and said it was all arranged, and mamma said 
I might go and sent my thick jacket. The old skip- 
per was cross, and wouldn't take us this afternoon. 
He is a very old bear sometimes, but I like him bet- 
ter than this one." 

Captain Harvey thought to himself he was not at 
all sure " it was all right," Miss Jessie's assurance 
notwithstanding. 

Jessie was in high spirits, chatting gaily with Miss 
Marvin, a fair, pretty English girl, and her brother, 
and was evidently anxious to make it pleasant for all 
the party. 

She explained to Captain Harvey : " My friend. 
Miss Marvin, threatens to forsake us to-morrow for 
the gaieties of Saratoga and the sublimities of Niag- 
ara, so we wish to show her all we can of this little 
nook this evening." The conversation digressed to 
English sea-shore places. Highland hunting lodges 
and the Princess of Thule. Still, Mr. Marvin held 
aloof in a rather ungracious manner, to the evident 
discomfort of his little sister sitting beside him. 

Suddenly the sky blackened, a squall struck them, 
broadside, the men sprung to the sails, but too late. 
No one knew how, but the little boat tipped over, and 
all were in the water. 

Mr. Marvin rose to the surface and grasped the 
edge of the boat. The skipper was alongside. An- 
nie Marvin was clinging to her brother. 



24 LINKS. 

" Any chance of righting this confounded boat ? '* 

" Not in this squall," growled the man. 

"Here, my good fellow," said the Honorable Phil- 
ip, " take my sister ashore safely and I'll give you 
twenty pounds. I shall have all I can do to take 
care of myself in this sea ! " 

On the other side, swept further and further away 
from the boat. Captain Harvey was struggling to 
hold up Jessie and Grace. 

" Grace, Jessie, put your arms over my shoulder — 
so. Don't clutch me, Jessie, or I can't hold you. 
They'll see us from the shore and send boats." 

" Oh ! it is my fault," moaned Jessie. " We shall 
all be drowned. I deserve it, but I'm so afraid to 
drown." 

" You can't hold us both," said Grace. " And oh I 
this is the arm that was hurt. Your poor little sis- 
ters ! " 

"You can take care of Jessie, I am not afraid — 
not much — and I can float, and if I don't get 
ashore — " 

" Oh, no, no ! save Grace and let me go," cried 
Jessie, without relaxing her hold. 

" Jessie, don't mind — too much — about me if I 
don't get ashore. My love to everybody. Oh, if 
they only would send help ! " 

*' Hold on, Grace ! I can stand it a little longer, 
child." 

" No, no, dear Captain Harvey, good-bye. The 
Lord — Jesus — knows I am here. He saved — my 
soul — he'll take care — good-bye." 



LINKS, 25 

She let go. A great wave swept her away from 
Jessie's agonized sight. 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE SAME. 

When Captain Harvey's little sisters and Paul re- 
ceived their brother's message, that he had " gone 
for a sail in the Sea Gull, with Miss Norris and 
Grace, and hoped to be back to walk with them after 
supper, they, as usual at such times of absence, 
perched themselves up in their sky-parlor window, 
spy-glass in hand, just to watch the boat that held 
their dear, big brother. He was father, brother, hero 
to them — all in one. And they could scarcely be 
sorry for the wounded arm that had sent him home 
to them to stay until he was well and strong as ever. 

" Why, there's Harry Norris ! " cried Paul. " I'll 
get him to come up here and watch, too." 

Before Paul could mount the stairs again with 
Harry, came a shriek of grief and horror from the 
children who were watching the little boat on the 
sea. 

" Oh, it's upset ! It went right over. Brother 
Aleck ! Oh, help ! " 

They tore down the long stairs, — the story told by 
their white faces and quivering lips. 

"Aye, aye, little misses. We'll have a boat out 
there as fast as strong arms can take her." It was 
the old skipper, Ben Harding, that spoke. " I 



26 LINKS. 

wouldn't take them out myself this afternoon for 
fear of this squall ; but this is another matter. Bad 
luck to the feller that did take them, just for the 
sake of the money ! " 

" Let me go along " — " and me ! " cried Paul and 
Harry. 

" No, no, boys ! It's work for men, not for chil- 
dren. There's summat you can do ashore, if it's 
true that there's a good God up there looking after 
folks in trouble. And you go home and keep your 
mother and your sisters from going crazy over them 
that's out there in danger, boys ! " 

A sad group it was in that big " sky-parlor " of the 
Harve3^s. Close to the large windows were gathered 
Mrs. Norris, Isabel, Harry and Captain Harvey's 
little sisters and Paul. 

" Oh, if I hadn't let them go ! " groaned Mrs. Nor- 
ris. " I never thought of their going with any one 
but Ben Harding. What will your poor father say? 
Oh, if he only were here ! It is my fault, my fault ! 
He told me to be careful ! " 

" Mamma, mamma, it is not your fault ! " Harry's 
voice spoke up, sharp and clear. " Jessie knew what 
she was about. She heard papa tell me we were not 
to go with any one but Ben Harding, and in his boat. 
Ben wouldn't take her this afternoon. I wanted to 
go, too ; but he said it looked squally, and he was 
really cross about it. So then — she must have got 
that other fellow's boat. It's just like Jessie ; and 
now Grace is there, too, and she'll be lost ! " 

Harry burst out crying. Grace was his dear sis- 
ter but he did not love Jessie very much. 



LINKS. 27 

" Hush, my boy ! This is no time to have hard 
thoughts of your sister. Pray God to spare Jessie 
and all of them, and to make us better." 

Harry looked in wonder at his mother. " It 
sounded more like Grace than like mamma," thought 
the boy. 

Meanwhile another boat quickly followed Ben 
Harding's. The squall was over ; again the sun shone 
out. 

" Oh ! there is somebody ; there are three near 
where the boat went over. " Oh, God ! " said Isabel, 
with a shudder. " How selfish I am ! I never once 
thought of Annie Marvin or her brother; but they 
must be there — somewhere ! " 

Swiftly now the little boats sped over the waters, 
nearer and yet nearer to the black objects now appear- 
ing and again vanishing before the agonized eyes of 
the watchers. 

" I counted seven a minute ago," whispered Isabel ; 
"but now there are only six." 

It seemed as if every one in the hotel and the 
neighboring houses were watching, too. 

Careless, gay fellows, who had danced with Jessie 
and Annie Marvin ; loving mothers, whose children 
were safe beside them ; stout-hearted fathers and 
merry girls — men, women and children, were all 
steadily watching that little spot on the great ocean, 
where they knew well the struggle between life and 
death was waging. 

Mrs. Norris held close and tight Captain Harvey's 
curly-headed little sister, Mary; poor Blanche was 



28 LINKS. 

clinging to Isabel, and Paul and Harry stood together 
in their eager watch. 

" Oh, I know how it will be ! " cried Paul, at last. 
" Aleck'U be drowned sure, trying to save other peo- 
ple. Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! " and the boy gave way to 
a terrible burst of grief. 

Isabel drew him close to her. " Paul, dear little 
boy, don't you think it is something to have a brother 
so grand and good and heroic — to know that he won't 
shirk anything in life or death that he knows is right .? 
If he were my brother," said the girl, slowly, with 
her soul in her eyes : " I would thank God for him, 
whether he were in heaven or on earth ; and — I 
would try to be like him, Paul ! " 

Paul turned and put his arms around her neck, 
and cried, "Oh, Aleck, Aleck ! " Then, with a sob, 
he looked up and said : " I'll try ! And may-be God 
will spare him to us " — 

"Yes, yes," said Isabel, eagerly; "never, never, 
give up hope." 

Blanche said, slowly : Oh ! it seems years since 
yesterday. Don't you remember, Paul, Aleck had 
been reading about Jesus walking on the sea, and 
the disciples not knowing him ? Gracie said she 
thought it was strange they didn't know the Lord. 
And Aleck said to remember it was early, early in 
the morning, in the twilight before the dawn ; early 
morning for their faith, he said, as for their sight." 

" Yes," said Paul, " and he said that afterwards, 
after the resurrection, the disciples were on the sea 
and Jesus stood on the shore in the early morning 
light. And then it was John, the 'one that Jesus 



LINKS. ' ' 29 

loved so much who knew him first and said : ' It is 
the Lord.' " 

" And then — Oh, Isabel ! I can't look at the boats 
any longer. It makes me feel so selfish. Isn't it 
just dreadful .? " 

" Poor children," said Isabel, crying with them. 
" It is worse for you than for us. Only you know it 
is so dreadful to think it was our sister who led them 
all into peril, and " — 

" Isabel, dear, don't ! " cried Blanche. 

" 1 do believe God will save them all. Don't you 
want to know what Gracie said, and Aleck liked so 
much ? " 

"Yes, dear," said Isabel, gently. ''Gracie said 
some verses, something Scotch. I can't remember 
■much except it was : ' We ken Thee not by the path- 
way o' the sea.' " 

And Aleck said all troubles were like the sea 
sometimes, and we must remember the Lord is com- 
ing to us, even when we can't see him. 

" I know," said Isabel, the tears standing in her 
eyes. " I remember the verses. Gracie found them 
in a paper last spring. It begins : 

" ' Our een, aft whiles, are howden, Lord 
Tho' near we are to Thee, 
But maist o' a', we ken Thee not 
By pathway o' the sea.' " 

" Yes that is it. But, oh ! see, see ! They have 
reached some of them. Oh, God have mercy and 
bring them all safe home ! " cried Blanche. 

Ben Harding's boat found Mr. Marvin, and then 
.his sister and the skipper of the Sea Gull. Notwith- 



30 LINKS. . 

standing the large offers of the Honorable Philip 
Marvin, if they would make with all speed to the 
shore, Ben Harding rowed on to find the others. 
" Is it the time for a man to be selfish when he's 
been saved from death himself and knows others are 
in the same luck he was. Here's blankets and 
brandy; wrap up the lady and yourself and you'll be 
none the worse for a half hour more trying to save 
other men's lives." Poor Annie Marvin, she was 
ashamed of her brother that day ! Now the other 
boat came up, having picked up the missing sailor on 
the way. Mr. Marvin and his sister, with the skipper, 
were transferred to it and bidden hoist a signal of 
good news to those on shore, while Ben Harding's 
boat went on to find the others. Nothing to guide 
them over the trackless wave, no clue, no trace of 
any human form. But sailors' eyes are keen, their 
ears are sharp. Just in time to save them, they find 
— not all, but two. 

Captain Harvey, when the strain was over, went 
off into a swoon. Both boats were well supplied 
with restoratives. Jessie recovered consciousness 
first, and, after a little. Captain Harvey revived. 
One thought, one longing now was shared by all : 
hope grew faint. Jessie, poor Jessie ! " Oh ! if Grace 
is lost, you know I am her murderess," moaned she. 

"Miss," -said Ben Harding in his bluff way, "it 
'pears to me it's time you asked the Lord to help. 
We're doing all that mortal man can do. But I've 
hearn tell, and I reckon it's so, that life and death 
are in the hands of God." 

"Oh, Ben, I do! I've been a wicked, selfish girl, 



LINKS. 3^ 

and don't know how to pray, but I know God can 
help, and I do ask him for Christ's sake — Oh ! there 
— there ! " shrieked Jessie. 

She was right. Over another wave, another, and 
now they have readied her sister. "Oh, oh! is it 
too late ? " cries Jessie's heart. 

They have lifted her into the boat, chafed her 
lifeless hands and moistened the cold lips with 
brandy ; but no sign of life ! Back to the shore they 
pull, for dear life, truly, now. 

A sigh — a quiver of the eyelids. Ah ! thank God, 
thank God, she lives ! " sobs Jessie. 

Run up the signal ! Joy ! joy ! 

" So He brought them into their desired haven." 



CHAPTER V. 

AT THE OAKS. 

Grace Norris was lying by the open window, the 
Sabbath morning after the accident. She looked 
happy and restful — not eager and buoyant, as she had 
been a few short days ago. Beside her, sat Hope 
Archer, who knew well how to give the gentle nurs- 
ing and petting which the child's shattered nerves 
very greatly needed. 

Grace held Hope's hand against her cheek, with 
her favorite caress, and said softly : " It was ever so 
good in Miss Winchester to come. Miss Hope. I 
haven't thanked you for coming, any more than I 
would think of thanking papa or Carroll." 



32 LINKS. 

" I should think not," replied Hope, lightly. " I 
could not possibly have stayed away." 

" But how did you ever hear ? " asked Grace, won- 
dering. " I have been so stupid, it never occurred 
to me to think of it ; I simply took your presence for 
granted, because you know you do belong to us." 

"Jessie sent me a telegram," said Hope, quietly. 
*' It was very good in her, for she didn't like me much 
at The Oaks." 

" Poor Jess ! " said Grace, tenderly. " It is awful 
for her. She hasn't had any rest or comfort, fearing 
that Captain Harvey would die, you know, for she 
feels so strongly that all the trouble came from her 
■wilfulness." 

" I know, dear j I feel more sorry for Jessie than 
for any one else ; but the doctors think now that 
Captain Harvey is out of danger, although it may be 
a long while before he is well." 

" How good God has been to us ! " said Grace, 
earnestly. " It is so nice to have papa and mamma 
and all the others go to church this morning. You 
know they asked to have thanks offered in church. 
Miss Hope ! " 

" Yes, dear ; Blanche and Paul told me their thanks- 
giving and yours were to be offered together." 

" Yes. How close it brings us to each other, does 
it not ? It does not seem possible that we had never 
seen Captain Harvey one month ago ! Now he and 
Paul and Blanche and Mary are like our own family." 

" Dear child, you must not talk any more just now. 
Shall I read to you a little while ? " 

So Hope read a chapter and sung a hymn, and 



LINKS. 2>2i 

then, as in the old days at The* Oaks, she preached a 
little bit, as Grace begged her to ; that is, she spoke 
from her own heart to Grace's, telling how God's 
blessed message comforted and helped her in her 
€very-day need. Suddenly Grace looked up and said : 
"Do you remember that wonderful picture of 'Our 
Sin-Bearer ? ' You told Harry and me about it one 
Sunday at home, and Captain Harvey has a beautiful 
engraving of it here. You know Harry and I learned 
the verses in St. Peter about the Saviour's example, 
* who his own self bore our sins in his own body on 
the tree.' Well, it was strange," said Grace, softly, 
" how that verse and that picture came up before me 
when I thought I never should see any of you again 
in this life, and remembered how bad and selfish and 
careless I had been. It seemed to me as if, before I 
had time to really feel how dreadfully wicked I had 
been, all the great heavy pile of my sins was resting 
on the Sin-Bearer, and the fear of dying was taken 
away I believed it would be all right with me, even 
if I should drown, and then I let go my hold of 
Captain Harvey. And after that I just floated, and 
floated, and I thought the waves were Christ's foot- 
steps, and he was coming to me." 

Grace paused, and a tender look, almost a smile, 
shone in her eyes with the remembrance. " The 
next I remember, was that I was in the boat, and 
Jessie was crying and kissing me, and I was ever so 
glad I hadn't drowned." 

" There, dear," said Hope, gently, " don't think of 
it any more." 

" It doesn't worry me to remember it one bit, but 

3 



34 LINKS. 

it makes you feel bad, so I won't talk about it. Don't 
you like Blanche and Paul, Miss Hope? Oh, I hope 
you will see Captain Harvey before long ! He is. — 
beyond words," said Grace with her old sweet laugh. 
"You used to tell me not to use extravagant expres- 
sions, so I think I am safe there." 

" I am sure he is a brave Christian gentleman, and 
as unselfish as he is brave ; and as for Blanche and 
little Mary and Paul, I think, as you say, they are 
* perfectly lovely,'" said Hope, smiling. 

"Indeed they are," echoed Grace. "You can't 
think how fond they are of Isabel ! Mamma told 
her if she didn't mind she had better stay at home 
this morning to keep little Mary quiet. She hasn't 
recovered from the fright yet, and Isabel seems to 
know just what to do with her — ever so much belter 
than Blanche does." 

"Then that was Isabel singing a while ago; I 
thought it was her voice." 

"Yes, she was singing 'Rock of Ages' and ' Im- 
manuel's Land,' " said Grace. " She sings right into 
my heart. You don't know what a comfort Issy is to 
mamma and Jessie now. She always has been good 
to Harry and me." 

" Indeed, I can well believe it," answered Hope; 
" and Jessie is — " 

" Very different, is she not ? " said Grace, supply- 
ing the words. " It does seem as if it were almost 
too good to hope for, for we haven't been a religious 
family at all ; but I do think God is making Jessie a 
Christian, though she doesn't take any comfort yet. 



LINKS. 35 

But she is so humble, and stops short when she be- 
gins to say something cross." 

Hope's eyes filled with tears, as she leaned over 
and kissed Grace. " ' For my thoughts are not as 
your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,' saith 
the Lord," she whispered. " And now, dear child, you 
must take your medicine and go to sleep." 

" Very well, dear Miss Hope. I do feel a little 
sleepy. It has been such a comfort to have this talk 
with you. It has quieted me, rested me, somehow. 
Now I'll go to sleep." 

Hope sat beside Grace while she slept, and looked 
out on the sea from the same window where four years 
before, she had watched the ocean in a furious storm 
while her father and mother were beside her. But 
there was now no bitterness in her heart over the 
losses and sorrows which God had sent to her. It 
was even sweet to be once more where they three had 
been together, and yet was it possible it was only a 
few weeks ago that she had told Mr. Norris she 
" could never bear to go to Narragansett again ? " 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE SAME. 

When Miss Winchester and Hope unexpectedly 
met Mr. Norris on the boat for Narragansett, his first 
greeting made it quite evident that he had received 
no telegram, and was still ignorant of the cause of 
their sudden trip. 

" That's right, Miss Hope ; going to the beach 



36 LINKS. 

after all ! Now I call this a really sensible move for 
Miss Winchester and you." 

It was very hard for Hope to answer, quietly, that 
" Mrs. Norris had sent for her ; " but it was not until 
they neared the landing that Hope felt she must speak 
more plainly. Poor Mr. Norris was completely 
stunned. 

" What does it mean ? I have had no telegram. 
I suppose I must have just missed it everywhere. 
Grace ill ? Why the child was merry as a cricket 
Wednesday morning, and this is Friday ! " 

Jessie and Harry met them at the wharf. Putting 
Miss Winchester and Hope in the carriage under 
Harry's care, Mr. Norris and Jessie walked up, by 
the nearer footpath, to the hotel. In those few mo- 
ments, for the first time in their lives, the hearts of 
father and child met in confidence and sympathy. 
Jessie's full and agonized confession of her self-will, 
disobedience and deceit touched her father's warm 
heart ; and while he hated the sin none the less, he 
felt himself strangely moved to love and comfort the 
sinner. 

" Oh, papa," she said striving vainly to keep back 
her tears, " do pray that I may not be a murderer ! 
God has spared Grace ; but if Captain Harvey dies, 
it will be I who have killed him ! I never prayed in 
my life before," said Jessie, humbly, " and I am so 
bad I am not fit to pray ; but I can't do anything 
else, and Issy says God is very merciful." 

" My poor child," said her father ; " God help you 
and all of us ! We have been a godless family, and 



LINKS, 37 

I am the most to blame ; for I knew better, and had 
a good Christian mother." 

The days wore on, — the long bright summer days 
of watching and suspense ; for neither Grace nor 
Captain Harvey rallied as the doctors hoped they 
would. During those sad days, which Jessie never 
forgot in after-life, no one was able to comfort her as 
the father whom she had so lately learned to know 
and love. She said one day to him : " Papa, I think 
I have been trying to bargain with God all this while, 
promising to serve him if he would make Captain 
Harvey and Gracie well. Now I have given it all up, 
and want him to take me, if he can care for such a 
good-for-nothing girl ; and I am willing he should 
punish me as he pleases. But, oh, I hope he won't 
let others suffer so terribly for my sin ! " Another 
day she said : " Papa, do you know you have helped 
me to believe in God's love ? You have been so piti- 
ful and good to me in this trouble that I can under- 
stand a little how our Father in heaven feels towards 
us." 

Ever since that dreadful day of the wreck, Blanche 
and Paul had clung to Isabel, and claimed her as 
their special friend. Little Mary Harvey was a very 
delicate, nervous child, and often it seemed to Blanche 
as if she would never go to sleep. Then Blanche in 
despair would beg Mrs. Norris to let Isabel come and 
sing to her, and soon the over-wrought, excitable 
child would close her eyes and sink into a quiet sleep. 
Once in these weeks of watching, Isabel had seen 
Captain Harvey. Paul had taken Blanche for a walk 
on the beach, and Isabel was on the balcony, where 



38 LINKS. 

she had been sitting after little Mary had gone to 
sleep, when Mrs. Norris called to her, asking her to 
bring some ice and a bandage for Captain Harvey's 
arm. She could not forget his white face and earnest 
eyes, nor the clasp of his hand as he tried to rise 
from the couch where he lay. 

" How can I thank you for being so good to my 
little sister," he said ; adding, with his old smile : 
*' You see I am a very good-for-nothing member of 
society now, and being so idle, I have taken to the 
naughty habit of stealing." 

" I shouldn't have suspected you of such a thing," 
replied Isabel, with a smile in her eyes. " How came 
you to be so bad ? " 

*' Well, the fact is, as your kind mother knows, I 
am very apt to get restless at the close of these long 
days, and sometimes I steal a share of little Mary's 
lullaby, and go to sleep while you are singing." 

" Since you aren't polite enough to stay awake and 
listen," answered Isabel, with a quick blush and 
smile, " I suppose I must forgive you ; but it is a 
very bad habit, I assure you. Good-night." 

After that evening, little Mary learned to go to 
sleep while Isabel's sweet voice wandered on through 
wonderful bed-time stories, and when a few times the 
child begged her to sing instead, Isabel had an un- 
comfortable consciousness that she was singing for 
the big brother also. 

At last the happy day arrived, when both patients 
were pronounced in a safe condition to attempt the 
journey to The Oaks. For by Mr. and Mrs. Norris' 
urgent invitation. Captain Harvey and his sisters and 



LINKS. 39 

Paul went home with them. Tt was Grace's blunt 
speech that finally overcame Captain Harvey's reluc- 
tance, as he said, " to quarter such a family on 
them, and one of them such a helpless log as he 
was ! " 

" Captain Harvey, if you won't come home with 
us, I shall always think you haven't forgiven me for 
hurting your arm that day ; and as for Blanche and 
Paul and Mary — they belong to us now, and you really 
mustn't take them away ! " 

The change proved very beneficial to the two in- 
valids, who soon regained their former strength ; 
while little Mary grew rosy and plump, as she had 
never been in all her short life. When Captain Har- 
vey had grown strong enough to join in the out-door 
pleasures at The Oaks, he gradually became aware 
of a barrier of reserve upon Isabel's part. Grace 
and Jessie were eager to show their guests the beau- 
ties of the neighborhood ; and, after Carroll sailed 
for Europe, Mr. Norris and his wife were always as 
ready as the younger members of the family to row, 
ride or drive, or to plan a day's pleasuring some- 
where. But strangely enough, whenever Isabel could 
stay at home without notice, she was inclined to do 
so. Once Captain Harvey asked her laughingl}^, 
whether she really wore glass slippers, and had a 
fairy godmother all to herself. 

Isabel scarcely dared to own to her own heart why 
she shrunk from joining the merry parties in those 
fair September days. Once when Harry and Grace 
went with Captain Harvey to watch the sunset from 
the top of High Rock, Harry was determined to 



40 LINKS. 

grumble over Isabel's absence. Grace spoke out with 
her old sharpness : " Why can't you let Issy be, 
Harry? I think she doesn't feel quite strong since 
last summer, and you know she never will make a 
fuss. She always wants us all to enjoy ourselves. I 
think somebody might think a little bit about her 
feelings ! " 

" I am sure you do," said Captain Harvey, warmly. 
"You are a brave little champion, Gracie, and de- 
serve a medal ! Harry and I are concience-stricken, 
and very sorry we have teased your sister ; but, of 
course, the fact is, we miss her when she isn't along 
with us. But we'll not tease her any more, will we, 
Harry ? " 



CHAPTER Vn. 

THE SAME. 

But a few days afterwards, Paul, with a boy's un- 
fortunate brusqueness and with an air of injury, ex- 
pressed his disappointment at the change in Isabel : 
" You aren't half as good as you were at Narragan- 
sett, Isabel. You don't seem to care about Aleck or 
any of us, for you never will go along when we take 
a walk or row." 

" Paul, my boy ! " exclaimed Captain Harvey ; 
and Paul felt himself rather unjustly rebuked. 

Isabel looked up, laughing, while the color rose 
in her cheeks, and she looked so lovely Captain Har- 
vey could not but watch her. 



LINKS. 41 

"What a stupendous accusation, and how very un- 
just, seeing I am taking a walk with you just now ! If 
Carroll were here he would tell me to 'deny each 
and every allegation of the complaint,' isn't that the 
phrase ? Then, you see, on the other hand, Paul," 
she said, merrily, " my collapse into my native inland 
badness is a very good reason for keeping my wick- 
edness to myself." 

" Nonsense," said Paul, very much ashamed of 
himself by this time. " I am awfully sorry I said 
that, Miss Isabel." 

" I didn't mind it a bit, Paul," said Isabel, with 
her old frank look at the boy's flushed face ; and 
then, turning to the older brother, she said quietly : 

"We were proposing to go to Dingle Ridge this 
afternoon. You know there's a lovely view from the 
crest of the hill, and a pretty lake near the top." 

"That's jolly," said Paul, delighted, as he was 
with any and every thing at The Oaks. 

" That would be charming, if I could manage to 
write some letters first," said Captain Harvey. 

They were walking in The Nook, a rough, rustic 
arbor, where the children were fond of bringing their 
books and games. 

" Would you not like to write here ? " proposed 
Grace. " The chairs are very comfortable, but the 
table is rather rickety." 

" It's a good deal better than a drum head," said 
Captain Harvey, lightly. "This will be very com- 
fortable, and far pleasanter than writing in-doors. 
Paul, will you bring me my portfolio, please ? " Paul 
rushed away, eager to do anything for the big broth^ 



42 LINKS. 

er who was his hero. He returned with the port- 
folio, and, before Isabel could tell him of the ink- 
stand under a beam in the arbor, he had gone off 
again exclaiming : " I'll fetch the ink in a minute." 

"I don't know how I shall manage," said Captain 
Harvey, gravely, "but I may as well learn to do 
without Blanche as secretary. One hand should be 
enough to write with, should it not .? " said he, look- 
ing at Isabel, apparently struck by her silence. 
Something in her face, in her wistful look, moved 
him to give her two letters, saying: "Would you 
mind reading them? You'll see it is rather serious 
business, for it concerns the children as well as my- 
self. Poor children ! they don't know yet," he said, 
with a quick sigh. Aleck Harvey's grave eyes 
looked past the fair, flushed face beside him, beyond 
the far-reaching lawn with its grand old trees, be- 
yond the shadows and sunshine on the broad, fair 
river — off to the far horizon line where earth and 
heaven seemed to meet. 

" Such a good bye sort of look," thought Isabel, 
with a heart-ache ; and inwardly thanked him for 
never looking at her while she read those letters. 
One was from his Colonel, in reference to his return 
to his regiment, the other from his mother's sister, 
offering to take care of the children if he would leave 
them with her. 

Isabel needed all the self-control of her nature, as 
she sat there holding those two dreadful letters in her 
hand. 

" He would go back to his regiment," she thought 
^' and perhaps be wounded again and die." She felt 



LINKS. 43 

like crying out wildly against the cruel fate before 
him, but, like many another woman, she sat still and 
gave no sign. " Oh ! " she thought, " if something 
would happen to make it right for him to stay 1 " 
But she must speak — what would he think ? 

She slowly folded the letters and turned toward 
Captain Harvey. His eyes came back from their far- 
away look and rested on the sweet, flushed face beside 
him. 

" Thank you, thank you very much," she said giv- 
ing the letters back to him. " Do you really have to 
go back to your regiment 1 " 

His hand closed over the little fingers that held the 
letters, while he answered, smiling : " I do really 
have to if the surgeons will pass me." 

" But you will leave the children here — oh, please, 
do ! We should miss them dreadfully, and it would 
seem as though we hadn't lost you entirely if we may 
have them still." 

" You don't know how you tempt me," said he, sud- 
denly. " It will be harder for me to go than you can 
possibly imagine. But I must do my duty." 

"Yes," said Isabel, softly. "I know you will." 
She never guessed how much more her eyes said, as 
she looked up at him for a moment. 

"God bless you for that," he said, hurriedly, lifting 
her little hand reverently to his lips. Then, rising 
suddenly, he walked to the arched doorway and looked 
again to the far horizon. As for poor little Isabel, 
she sat bewildered and half abashed. 

" What had she said t " she thought to herself. 
" What ever had she said to make him thank her — 



44 LINKS. 

like that ! Oh, dear ! had she said anything dreadful ? 
But no, she was sure she had not. Of course they all 
believed Captain Harvey would do his duty (her 
heart throbbed gladly with true pride in her hero) and 
she had only said so." 

Then she became conscious that some one was 
speaking to her. 

" I did not know before that we could see the ocean 
so plainly from this place. Look through my glass, 
Miss Isabel. You can see the ships quite distinctly, 
can you not ? " 

" I say," cried Paul, coming toward them on a run, 
" it is too bad you've had to wait all this time for the 
ink, but Blanche and everybody has gone off, and I 
have just found them ; and lunch is ready, and will 
you please come, Mrs. Norris says, and write your 
letters afterward." 

" The mail closes at half-past five," said Isabel, 
glad to speak of something ordinary, while her 
thoughts would wander to the answers to be writtea 
to those dreadful letters. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

THE SAME. 

The following day Captain Harvey went to Wash- 
ington with Paul. Two days afterward, came a letter 
to The Oaks, which, for a while, quite startled Mr. 
Norris out of his self-possession. Suddenly, rising 
from the breakfast-table with the letter in his hand, he 



LINKS. 45 

retreated to his study, exclaiming emphatically : As- 
tonishing ! Astonishing! Wife, come here, please, 
when you are through breakfast." 

Mrs. Norris very soon followed him, and read Cap- 
tain Harvey's straightforward letter, begging they 
would allow him to try to win their Isabel. 

" Well, wife, what do you think ? Confounded cool, 
isn't it ? To put us under such obligations by saving 
the life of one girl, and then to come and ask us to 
give him another," exclaimed Mr. Norris, testily, man- 
ifesting a strong inclination to wipe his eyes in the 
midst of his indignation. Mrs. Norris laughed, " Oh ! 
you blame him for not asking for Jessie 1 Is that it, 
George ? " 

" No, it isn't ! I suppose I'm just as unreasonable 
as most fathers are about their daughters." 

" It seems to me we have only ourselves to blame 
for it, if you don't like it, George," said Mrs. Norris, 
seriously. 

"Oh, I like him well enough. He's a first-rate 
fellow, square and above-board, as his father was 
before him. But I don't enjoy the idea of sending 
off one of my girls to live among those wild Indians." 

"Well George," said Mrs. Norris, slowly, "this 
has been a wonderful summer, and it seems to me 
we have come to look at things in a very different 
way from last year. For my part, I would rather 
have Isabel run the risk of life on the frontier, with 
such a man as Captain Harvey, than live with John 
Middleton in New York." 

" Good land, Bessie, what has upset your notions 
so ? I thought you liked Middleton ten times better 



46 LINKS. 

than I ever did. A good-enough man, but far too 
fond of fast horses, and show, and style for me ! 
What has turned you against him ? " 

" I don't dislike him personally, George," said Mrs. 
Norris, speaking with some hesitation, "but I see 
what all this kind of life amounts to now. If you 
want to know what has changed my views, I shall 
have to make quite a confession. First, Hope 
Archer's influence over Grace convinced me that 
there was something in being a Christian that I 
didn't know anything about. I have watched her a 
good deal this year past, and then this dreadful time 
this summer, and Jessie's repentance, and Captain 
Harvey's heartiness in serving Christ, and some 
things he said about his mother — take them all 
together, George, even 7ny worldliness hasn't with- 
stood the power of living Christianity ! " 

Mr. Norris drew his wife closer to him. " I would 
give anything in the world to be a Christian, George," 
she whispered. " I have been nothing but a sham, 
all my life." 

^ ^ ^ ^ T\~ ^ ^ 

Six months have passed away since the scene in 
Mr. Norris' study, — the six months which Mr. Norris 
insisted should elapse before Captain Harvey should 
seek to win their Isabel. During that time Blanche, 
Paul and Mary had been with their aunt, Mrs Tay- 
lor, in Cambridge, with the exception of a fortnight 
in the winter holidays, which they had passed at The 
Oaks. As Paul said, " It was too jolly for anything ; 
if Aleck had only been there, too ! " 

But he was off in Arizona, and letters did not 



LINKS. 47 

arrive as regularly as his sisters, and perhaps some 
one else, wished they might. But Isabel kept her 
own little secret bravely, and in the many letters of 
her brother, which Blanche sent to The Oaks for 
their friends to read, there was never any special 
message to her. 

Isabel had long ago told herself that it was only 
because it was she who had happened to be in the 
arbor that morning when he had been " so friendly " 
— she would have said, if she had tried to put that 
sacred memory into words. 

" Mamma, how you do count the days ! " said 
Isabel, laughing, as her mother said one morning : 

"George, do you know it is the third of Apr in 
Do you think you will want me to come to your study 
this morning.'*" 

Mr. Norris was standing by the open wood fire, for 
the mornings and evenings were still chilly at The 
Oaks. His arm was around Isabel, who was "help- 
ing him look up the news," as she said, gaily. He 
turned to his wife with a smile at her suggestive 
question. "You are an excellent calendar, Bessie. 
You've reminded me of the flight of time every day 
for the past month, haven't you, wife ? " 

A smothered exclamation of horror from Isabel's 
lips drew their attention to her. She stood white 
and still, with eyes fixed and finger pointing to a 
paragraph, headed : 

" More Indian Treachery. — It is reported, though not offi- 
cially as yet, that a detachment of United States troops, 5th 
cavalry, on the way to relieve a starving settlement, has been 
surrounded and nearly destroyed by Indians. The scout who 



48 LINKS. 

brings this report states that Major Harvey and Captain Mur- 
ray were with the party. Major Harvey received his brevet 
only a few weeks ago. It would truly be a sad fate for him if, 
after recovering from the wound of a poisoned arrow last year, 
this gallant officer should so soon fall by the treachery of an- 
other band of these Indian devils." 

'• It cannot be true ! Oh, it cannot be true ! Poor 
Blanche and Paul 1 " cried Isabel, bursting into tears 
and clinging to her father's arm. 

'"Of course it's one of those horrid political news- 
paper reports," said Jessie, with fine impartiality. 
" I don't believe a word of it ! " 

" It is not official. I'll telegraph immediately to 
the War Department. So, children, keep up a good 
heart," said their father, trying to speak cheerfully as 
as he left the room. 

"Mamma," said Grace, "don't you remember 
Blanche wrote that her brother was to have leave of 
absence and come East very soon ? so there's no 
good in our believing a word of it. Oh ! it is too 
dreadful." 

"Mamma, won't you write to the children?" said 
Isabel, still shivering, but trying hard to control her- 
self. 

"Yes, dear, and you write a little note, too; 
they are so fond of you," said Mrs. Norris, tenderly. 
" We will not send the letter until papa's telegram is 
answered. He thinks we can hear in two hours." 

It was a sorrowful morning at The Oaks. Mr. and 
Mrs. Norris felt sadly sure that little Isabel's heart- 
ache was far keener and sorer than Jessie's or Grace's, 
yet all they could do was to sorrow and hope with 



LINKS. 49 

her, and give no voice to the conviction which had 
come with the falling of the heavy blow. 

" Oh, dear," cried Grace, " I do wish Annie and 
Will Russell were not to come to-day ! " 

"It can't be helped," said Jessie, shortly, "and 
we must make the best of it ; but 1 do wish they'd 
send word they couldn't come." 

Grace and Jessie left Isabel to write her note in 
quietness. After she had written it, she stole away 
to the arbor, to wait until some news should come. 
It was a lovely spring day. She had felt so happy 
that morning, for somehow the hope of Aleck's return 
had crept into her heart unawares. She sat with her 
head hidden upon her arms beside the little rickety 
table. Every word, and look, and tone came freshly 
back to her. 

" O God ! don't let it be so, please ; or, if it must 
be, make me willing ! " she cried. At last, a shadow 
of her old hope and courage came back to her, while 
she gave her poor, crushed, little heart into God's 
own keeping. " I suppose I ought to go back to the 
house now," she thought, wearily, as she heard a car- 
riage drive up and the stir of an arrival reached her. 

" There ! I suppose Harry is coming to call me," 
as she heard hurried steps nearing the arbor. " Oh, 
I wish I hadn't cried ! " She turned to the archway, 
where she had stood with Aleck, looking out on the 
far-off sea. Then — how it was she never knew — she 
heard his voice, looked up, and he was beside her. 
" Oh, oh ! I thought you were dead ! " she sobbed, 
covering: her face with her hands. 



50 LINKS. 

" Thank God, it was a false report from beginning 
to end, dear child." 

He drew her to a seat, and with a tremble in his 
own voice said, while he held her with his strong 
arm : 

" Isabel, dear, won't you look at me ? Remember 
I haven't seen your dear face for six long months." 

She took away her hands. " Oh, I must go ! " she 
whispered, as she felt her cheeks flush under his 
earnest look. 

" Isabel ! " — He spoke the name as if it were very 
sweet to say it — " Isabel, your father and mother 
sent me to find you here. I cannot let you go just 
yet. If you knew how I had longed to see you, — 
how I have thought of this little arbor as the dearest 
place on earth because of my memory of you ! My 
little darling, how I have hoped for this day ! Isabel, 
dear, look up and tell me, do you think 3'ou could 
ever love me well enough to be a soldier's wife ? " 

She slowly raised her face. A sparkle of her old 
spirit shone in her eyes, though her lips still quivered, 
while she said, shyly : 

" That would depend altogether upon — who the 
soldier is — Aleck." 



LINKS. c I 



PART SECOND. 
CHAPTER I. 

THE OLD WINCHESTER HOUSE. 

Hope Archer drew a long sigh of relief when she 
had bidden good-bye to all at The Oaks, as she imag- 
ined, "until September," and was fairly at home 
again with her dear Cousin Bess. 

" The Old Winchester House," as it was called 
throughout the country, was built before the Revolu- 
tion by the great-grandfather of the present Miss 
Winchester, who had held large grants from the 
crown. The chronicles of those old days, preserved 
in letters between members of that long-perished 
generation in the mother country and in the colonies, 
were no small pleasure to this solitary woman, who 
loved the old homestead and honored her ancestors 
with a fidelity inherent .in her nature. 

The house stood on a sunny knoll, one side of 
which sloped down to the silver river, where, in the 
days when Elizabeth Winchester was young, many a 
boat was moored by the steps at the foot of the gar- 
den, while merry visitors gathered in the wide, low- 
browed rooms or lingered under the old trees on the 
lawn. Now, the children of those old friends of 
Elizabeth Winchester were made welcome to the 
pleasant home of her girlhood by the graceful, high- 
bred, simple-hearted woman, whom they were per- 
mitted to claim as "Cousin Bess." But Hope 



52 LINKS. 

Archer was the only one of them all who had even a 
far-away legal claim to kinship ; Hope's grandfather, 
Harry Archer, having been cousin to John Winches- 
ter, the father of " Cousin Bess." 

When Hope's father, four years before our story 
opens, was ruined pecuniarily by the fraud of a trusted 
friend for whom he had indorsed, the blow, coming, 
as he owned it did, as the consequence of his careless 
confidence and folly, roused him to energetic action to 
retrieve his error. He flung himself again, with all 
the force of his nature, into the profession which he 
had given up when, by his father's death, he had 
become a wealthy man. His friends rallied around 
him, clients multiplied, and life seemed very sweet 
and good. His wife had secretly grieved over the 
indolence into which he had fallen in his prosperity, 
and now, with wifely pride, rejoiced in his success. 

Swiftly fell the blow by which he was smitten down. 
A few days' painful illness, borne bravely with cheer- 
ful trust in God's faithful promises for himself and 
his dear ones, and Livingston Archer's place in the 
world was empty forever. Elizabeth Winchester's 
promise to her cousin to care for his wife "as her 
own sister," comforted Hope's father on his dying 
bed as no other human pledge could have done. 
When all was over, Mrs. Archer, with womanly inde- 
pendence, refused to be a burden to any one, although 
she gratefully accepted Miss Winchester's invitation 
to live with her in the old Winchester home. The 
interest of a few thousands, left to her by an uncle, 
together with her earnings as an artist with needle 
and brush, sufficed for the support of herself and 



LINKS. 53 

Hope. To her little daughter she was friend and 
teacher as well as mother, and so two years of wid- 
owhood passed, not without comfort and sunshine. 
Many a time Hope planned how, in the years to come, 
she would have a class, perhaps even a school of her 
own, and her mother should do nothing but paint 
lovely pictures and make their home with Cousin 
Bess, in the fairest old place in the world. 

But suddenly the child was orphaned. Mrs. 
Archer died, after an illness as short and sharp as 
her husband's had been, and poor Hope seemed 
crushed and bewildered by the suddenness of the 
blow. It was a merciful Providence, though a strange 
one, that brought Hope back from her mother's grave 
to nurse Miss Winchester through a nearly fatal ill- 
ness. The fever which had terminated rapidly in 
Mrs. Archer's case, ran a slower course in Miss Win- 
chester's, and, after four weeks' loving and faithful 
nursing, Hope's heart was comforted by Dr. Butler's 
announcement that she was out of danger. The girl 
of seventeen had grown womanly and brave in those 
sad days. After Miss Winchester's recovery, when 
she told Hope she must never leave her except for a 
home of her own, Hope put her arms around her old 
friend's neck and said : " Dear Cousin Bess, I haven't 
any one but you now. Please scold me when I am 
bad, and let me teach if I have an opportunity, and 
I will always come home to you in my holidays. I 
am sure I shall be better and brighter if I am very 
busy." 

So, when Mr. Norris asked Hope to teach Grace 
and Harry, Miss Winchester unselfishly consented ; 



54 LINKS. 

but the old homestead seemed very desolate without 
the girlish presence which had made such sunshine 
in the older w^oman's life. 

Now, in the summer holidays Hope and Miss Win- 
chester were together again, and, notwithstanding her 
longing for tidings from Wayne Halsey, the young 
girl was blithe and happy. The second day of her 
vacation, she came home at sunset with a letter for 
Cousin Bess, bearing Brazilian post-mark and stamps. 

" Wayne ! " exclaimed Miss Winchester. 

" Yes," said Hope, with a little tremor in her voice. 
" That's his very own W. He always makes such 
funny capitals ! Let me put my head in your lap 
while you read it, please. So Cousin Bess read and 
Hope listened. 

Wayne told how he had sailed in the Farafihiba, 
bound for Bahia and Rio, of the long days in which, 
to keep himself from vain regret, he had studied 
Portuguese with Jack Howells, and navigation with 
the mate, "a kind, hearty, old man, who seems to 
have taken a fancy to me, somehow'' ("Just like 
Wayne," thought Hope. " Who ever could resist his 
winning ways?") "I wish," he wrote, "you could 
see Jack Howells, dear Cousin Bess. He is such an 
earnest, straightforward fellow, full of life and fun, 
and a Christian, too, without a bit of sham or brag. 
He knows the story of my folly. Didn't he talk to 
me ! He told me plainly that if Hope w^as the true, 
good woman I described her, I wasn't worthy of her; 
that I had behaved abominably, and if she ever for- 
gave me it would be because of her goodness, not 
because of mine, and so on. Well, it is all true. 



LINKS. 55 

They had been in Rio only three days when Wayne 
wrote, and were stopping at the Hotel Estravieros, 
out on Botafogo Bay, only until they could get more 
reasonable quarters. 

" How I wished for you and Hope, when we sailed 
into the harbor of Rio. You know I have no gift at 
descriptions." Then came a pencil sketch — "just to 
show how we entered. These giant mountain peaks, 
standing out in the sea, are like weird sentinels 
guarding the harbor. The two islands between which 
our ship is sailing are Pai and Mai (Father and 
Mother). On the mainland are Corcovado and 
Sugarloaf and Gabra, and the distant, perpendicular 
mountain shafts are the Organ mountains. We need 
no pilot for this harbor ; it is very safe. We sailed 
in at midnight, the moon was not more than half-full ; 
but, oh, how it shines in these tropic skies ! 

"You know we had to give up our familiar old 
friend, the North Star, some time ago — I think be- 
fore we crossed the Equator. The Coal-Sack, the 
Magellan Cloud and the Southern Cross are on duty 
now. I wonder if you remember, dear Cousin 
Bess, telling me about these southern heavens, long 
ago, when Hope and I were children, and I had taken 
a sudden craze on the subject of astronomy ! Hope 
would enjoy these new constellations and the won- 
derful glory of the tropical moonlight If I could 
only hope some day — some day to stand on the deck 
with her, and we enter the harbor together ! " 

Cousin Bess read the last sentence to herself, and 
putting the letter in Hope's hands, she said : " There, 
child, you had better finish it. I think it is more 



56 LINKS. 

than half for you, at all events ! So you stay here, 
dear, while I tell Sally about breakfast." 

Wayne's pencil again supplied the place of lengthy 
descriptions, as he sketched their quarters in the 
hotel at Botafogo, and the immense, dreary, seven- 
windowed salon which nothing less than such moon- 
light as was shining when he wrote could glorify. 

" A forlorn, homeless looking place, with pictures 
of Queen Victoria, Washington and Lafayette staring 
at us from the walls — I suppose to remind us that we 
are truly strangers and pilgrims, and don't belong 
here. The ' Praia do Flamingo' — the beach at the 
back of the hotel — is a fine place for a swim. Jack 
and I take a bath at five o'clock i^i the morning, and 
then go back and take an early breakfast before be- 
ginning our daily round, which, sad to say is not 
quite as steady a round as we wished it to be. But 
you'll be glad to know that I have the partial promise 
of work in the survey of a projected railway in the 
interior. I haven't been able to get hold of a map 
of the locality yet. These Brazilians are a rather 
slow sort of folks, and quite jealous of the enterprise 
of the aggressive Anglo-Saxon. 1 shall have the ap- 
pointment, if any foreigner gets it, the Consul tells 
me, and he seems to know how things happen here. 

"Jack's affairs are no nearer settlement than mine ; 
for the American partner in the firm of Riggs & Her- 
rera, who sent for Jack and me to come here, is very 
ill and unable to see any one, and Herrera is in 
Paris. 

" Under the circumstances, we can only ' bide a wee,' 
as Hope used to sing ; and Jack and I are going to 



LINKS. 57 

stay together as long as we can. We are paying at 
the rate of 50 milreas per week for our two rooms 
(the dreary salon is thrown in, because we don't want 
it !), with breakfast, and dinner, which is about twelve 
dollars apiece ; but that is too much for men who 
have to make their own fortunes. 

" A friend of Jack's father, who is a sort of inde- 
pendent missionary among the Portuguese here, has 
told me of comfortable quarters, and we are going 
to have our trunks moved to-morrow, and quit the 
dreary, forlorn splendor of the Hotel Estravieros. 
.... I wish you could have been with us yester- 
day. This Mr. Richards is a peculiar man, but very 
interesting. He asked us to come to a service which 
he holds Sunday evenings in a large upper room in 
the Casa da Biblia (which, you will guess, is a Bible- 
house), on the top of a hill called the ' Morro do 
Liveamento.' 

" I did not suppose that I could understand a ser- 
mon in Portuguese; but Mr. Richards' face and ges- 
tures are so expressive, that I had no difficulty in 
following him. 

" I confess, I never was so much interested in an 
English sermon. And the text was: 'He that be- 
lieveth, shall not make haste,' and the burden of the 
sermon was about staying ourselves on God's prom- 
ise, and being sure that nothing should fail of his 
good pleasure — and so on. The hymns and music 
were very fine ; the chorus of one hymn runs in my 
head still : ' Non si pressa, non si pressa' which is, of 
course, ' Shall not make haste.' Well, I dare say it 
was a comfort to Jack. He seems to have taken it 



58 LINKS. 

home to his heart ; but the trouble with me is, that I 
am not at all sure that my good pleasure is the Lord's 
— in fact, quite the other way. So I live in restless 
anxiety, always afraid of some bad news, of some- 
thing that would make an endless blank in my life. 
Heigh ho ! I didn't mean to write all this. I wish I 
were like Jack. He is not afraid of evil tidings. 
Good-bye, dear, kind friend. Write me all about 
yourself and Hope, and never give up 

Your affectionate boy 
Wayne." 



CHAPTER n. 

THE SAME. 

" It is quite remarkable, Hope!" said Miss Win- 
chester, teasingly, a few weeks after Wayne's letter 
came. ^'Your taste for Portuguese grammars and 
Brazilian travels has developed amazingly ! I think 
that patient old clerk at the library imagines you are 
writing a ' History of Brazil, Past and Present,' at 
the very least." 

" I believe he does," said Hope, laughing. '' He 
told me yesterday I was the most enterprising young 
lady who came to the library, and mentioned the 
fact that ' Mrs. Darwin assisted her husband in his 
studies and book on Brazil.' You remember it, don't 
you ? I had hard work to keep my face straight, but 
I managed to assure him that I had no ambition to 
be a scientific explorer, and was reading only ' for 
information.' " 



LINKS. 59 

The summer days passed rapidly by. Hope 
studied, read aloud to Miss Winchester, sung and 
painted during the day-time ; and often in the twi- 
light she rowed cousin Bess and herself to some 
neighbor's garden on the river for a friendly call. 
Wayne's letter was immediately answered by his old 
friend from the fulness of her warm, kindly heart. 
Of Hope she wrote frankly, saying she was the sun- 
shine of the old place, and true and good as always. 

" You have your honor to redeem, and your man- 
hood and fidelity to prove, for your own sake as well 
as Hope's, my dear boy," wrote Cousin Bess. " It 
is a hard discipline for you j but your friend Jack 
Howells is right — you needed it." 

After a few uneventful weeks came the startling: 
telegram from Jessie Norris, their hurried departure 
for Narragansett, and stay there, and Hope's return 
with the family to The Oaks some time after Miss 
Winchester had left the sea-shore for Norriston. 

Then Hope came home again to Cousin Bess, to 
stay until she was needed by her pupils at The Oaks. 
Meantime, Carroll Norris suddenly left for Europe. 
No one but Hope and he knew the story of those 
few moments one moonlight evening, while he lin- 
gered by the river. 

When he came to bid Miss Winchester good-bye, 
the old self-conceit and assurance had so thoroughly 
given place to a quiet sadness, that Cousin Bess, 
whose heart always went out to all in trouble, felt 
drawn to him as she never had been since his boy- 
hood. 

"Dear Miss Winchester," he said, earnestly, ^'you 



6o LINKS. 

used to tell me when I was a boy that my pride would 
have a fall. Well," he said, smiling, "it has ; but it 
is all right. Take good care of yourself — and of 
Hope. She is my good friend, I know, but will never 
be more than that. Good-bye — good-bye ;" and he 
wrung her hand and rushed away in a manner very 
unlike his usual stately walk. 

In September Hope returned to The Oaks, but it 
was indeed a very much sweeter life there than ever 
before. Jessie was so thoroughly changed that the 
memory of her old pride and unkindness vanished 
entirely from Hope's forgiving heart.' Mrs. Norris, 
too, was very kind, though Hope did not know that 
her altered manner was partly the effect of a frank 
talk which Carroll had with his mother the night 
before he sailed. 

On the 2oth of each month Miss Winchester's 
Brazilian letter was duly posted from New York, and 
occasionally she wrote also by way of England, " so 
that the poor boy may be sure to hear from us," she 
thought, " and need not fancy himself forgotten." 
But it was long before another letter came from 
Wayne. And then two came in one inclosure, with 
a line, saying that the earlier one had been forgotten 
by the clerk, and had only been discovered when he 
had written the later letter. The first one Wayne 
wrote from Petropolis, where Jack Howells and he 
were having a grand, good time as guests of the 
American Minister, who had been a college class- 
mate of Wayne's father. Wayne wrote in excellent 
spirits, saying that the railway scheme was flourish- 



LINKS. 6 1 

ing, and was really, he believed, the secret of his 
very cordial reception by so many delightful people. 

"Everybody is as pleasant to us as if we were 
princes ! But I assure you, I would gladly leave all 
these kind people to-morrow and go to work at the 
survey. 

" How I wish you could see this gem of a summer 
home among the mountains ! I haven't become quite 
accustomed yet to winter in June and summer in 
January ; but after all, we free American citizens, 
from a republic north of the Equator, cannot expect 
to set the fashions and seasons for all the rest of the 
world." 

Then followed a hurried sketch of their journey to 
Petropolis from Rio, by ferry-boat, rail and diligence. 

" We enjoyed the thirteen miles in the diligence, 
drawn by relays of mules — four to each carriage — up 
the fine macadamized road to the top of the Serra. 
These mules — splendid creatures, having the speed 
and beauty of a horse, with the sure-footedness of a 
donkey — carry you up the mountain at a swinging 
gallop all the way. It seemed odd to see a hedge of 
century plants and cacti along this road. The vege- 
tation here constantly surprises me, being such an 
exhibition of the flora of both tropical and temperate 
zones. 

" Coming back this evening from a horseback ex- 
cursion to Cascadina, we reached the plateau at the 
summit of the Serra just in time for a most gorgeous 
sunset and afterglow. Jack says, ' After this, we can- 
not call Turner's coloring extravagant.' Imagine 
great masses of richest purple, gold and crimson 



62 LINKS, 

clouds fading away at the horizon to a most delicate 
tint : blue, and pink, and faintest tinge of green ; be- 
low, wild gorges, high hills, tumbled together like 
children in a frolic, the flash of a mad mountain tor- 
rent, sharp cliffs and fair valleys, and far away the 
dim line of the sea, while like a silver thread winding 
and doubling on the verge of precipice after preci- 
pice, now lost, again appearing, yet always ascend- 
ing, shines the long road which led us up to these 
heights. 

" ' Oh, if Hope could have seen it ! ' Mrs. Stuy- 
vesant exclaimed. ' What a picture ! ' and Jack 
added, ' What a poem, too ! ' The natural conse- 
quence was — we turned our horses' heads and rode 
back to dinner. Prosaic, but true ! 

" To-morrow we are permitted to call on Dom Pe- 
dro, as he has sent word to that effect. He is as 
pleasant at home as he was on his tour, and I sup- 
pose the subscriber will have a chance to answer 
some questions in i-e surveying, engineering, etc. I 
hope so." 

The other letter bore date a month later. Wayne 
wrote with a heavy heart. " How can I tell you all 
that has happened since my last letter ! You do not 
know what a blessing your letters are to me. God 
bless YOU for them, dear, kind friends. Well, I must 
tell you briefly the story of these four weeks since 
Jack and I were at Petropolis — so happy and hopeful 
we were ! Well, nothing turned out as we hoped. 
Red tape and torpor, schemes and intrigues, hindered 
my appointment, though the Consul assured me still : 
' if any foreigner is to have the work, you'll have it.' 



LINKS. 63 

Mr. Riggs, who had asked Jack to come here, offer- 
ing him an interest in the firm, died, and the other 
partner, Herrera, is closing up the business. Both 
Jack and I were growing home-sick for letters, our 
pockets were pretty nearly empty, and things looked 
rather serious. 

" Howells, however, had the offer of a position at 
Valparaiso, and I had made up my mind to go there 
with him, unless there was some definite word for 
me concerning the survey by the end of the month. 
I knew I could get money from the Consul if worse 
come to worst, but I had a little bit of pride in not 
using father's letter of credit. Jack had determined 
to go in a sailing vessel around the Horn, and of 
course if I went at all, I was going with him. 

" Well, we waited till the last day, and no news. 
We were on our way to the Sa?ita Lucia, to take pas- 
sage by her, when Jack said : ' Try once more at the 
Consul's. I think the English mail came in last 
night.' ' All right,' I said. 

"Well, I found a letter from you and my commis- 
sion as surveyor, etc., etc. Jack had home letters, 
but no business news. So it was settled, you see, 
and I suppose you will be sure it was a plain inter- 
position of Providence. It was hard to bid Jack 
good-bye and see him start alone. I cannot tell you 
what he has been to me — friend, counsellor, brother, 
all in one. And now — 

" It is a week to-day since the Santa Lucia sailed, 
and last night the English steamer from Buenos Ayres 
came in. The captain says he saw a ship go down in 
the terrible gale three nights ago ; that it was impos- 



64 LINKS. 

sible to launch a boat; he tried and failed. His own 
vessel was in great danger, but he lay to, hoping to 
pick up some of the passengers or crew, but did not 
see one man. They picked up some spars marked 
with the name of the vessel, and reported accordingly 
at this port. I cannot believe that Jack is gone, 
that I shall never see him on earth again. He was 
so ready to live, and yet he is taken and I am left ! 
My heart is very heavy. It seems to me Jack is call- 
ing to me from his grave in the sea to finish his work 
in the world, to live the life he would have lived. 
And, Cousin Bess, it is impossible for me, for I am 
not a Christian and Jack was. That was the secret 
of his happy life. 0\^, Jack, Jack ! How can I be 
good without him ! I can understand pretty well 
David's lament over Jonathan. =* * * Do write 
about Hope a-nd yourself. I shall probably be far in 
the interior, perhaps shall have no opportunity of 
sending letters frequently, so do not be anxious if you 
should not hear from me for months. I am sure you 
pray for me. Don't give me up. 

Your affectionate 

Wayne." 



CHAPTER HI. 

THE GOLDEN SOUTH AMERICAS. 

Wayne's next letter was sent by private hand from 
the rough mountain camp where he and two English- 
men were busy on the railroad survey. He wrote 
cheerfully, said he was well, but almost famished for 



LINKS. 65 

news from home. He begged Cousin Bess, if it 
would not be too painful, to write a little note to Jack 
Howells' sister, and he inclosed her address. " Of 
course I wrote," he said, "after there seemed no 
reasonable doubt that all on board the Santa Lucia 
were lost, but somehow, Cousin Bess, / cannot believe 
Jack is dead, and yet it would be only cruel to strive 
to give my groundless hope to others. 

"I miss him every day, but I do thank God for 
those few months' companionship. * * ^ Please 
write me all you can about Hope. Tell me how she 
looks, what she does — anything you will. The dis- 
tance between us seems immeasurable, yet I never 
doubt that she did love me once. Fool and wretch 
that I was to be jealous of her and turn to a false 
flirt for comfort! Howells is the only man I ever 
knew who was worthy of her. Dear, sweet, proud 
little Hope ! " 

Springtime came again, bringing unspeakable hap- 
piness to Isabel ; and in the busy stir and excitement, 
half glad, half sad, of her wedding, for Major Harvey 
had only one month's leave of absence, and Isabel 
was to go to Arizona with him, Hope tried hard to 
forget her own anxiety at Wayne's long silence. 

At last, in June, came a few lines, in which he 
mentioned several letters he had sent, but which Miss 
Winchester knew she had never received. He was 
hard at work, the survey was accomplished success- 
fully, the plans reported and accepted, and now the 
practical, actual road-making was to begin. He had 
been down to Rio once or twice, and had persuaded 
Mr. Richards to return with him and do some mis- 
5 



66 LINKS. 

sionary work in their camp. "You may imagine the 
need of it. The two hundred men with us now are 
virtually heathen. They are disgusted with the Ro- 
man Catholic priesthood here in Brazil, have sense 
enough to turn their backs on the mummery and 
pretended miracles which are rife wherever there are 
devotees of St. Joseph and the Holy Virgin, and yet 
they know nothing better. One of my assistants is a 
good man, and is gaining an influence over these 
rough fellows. But we need some one who has 
more time and is used to reaching the Portuguese, as 
Mr. Richards is. I wish very much you would send 
me some hymn books, Portuguese, if you can find 
them, but, if not, then English. We want the music 
especially. We have some excellent hymns of Mr. 
Richards — I inclose copies of two or three — but 
there is no music suitable for them. I don't want to 
bother you with this commission, dear Cousin Bess, 
but I know it is more in your line than mine, and you 
are the only one I can ask to do such a kindness for 
me." 

By the next steamer, Miss Winchester and Hope 
sent to Wayne such a supply of hymn books and of 
music, copied by Hope and set to the words which 
Wayne had inclosed, as gladdened and surprised 
that young man exceedingly. Miss Winchester wrote 
that it was a very great pleasure to do this for him 
and for his poor Portuguese, and added that " Hope 
was very happy copying the music and singing the 
hymns, just as if she could understand Portuguese !" 
Miss Winchester did not tell Wayne that she had 
found Hope crying over his letter, she was so thank- 



LINKS. 



67 



ful and so glad ! Neither did she tell him that Hope 
had never offered to return it to its rightful owner. 

Then came the sultry summer days of August, 
unusually trying this year to Cousin Bess, for she 
seemed to lose strength and energy in an alarming 
manner. One day she received a letter, gave it to 
Hope to read, and asked her what she would think of 
inviting the old clergyman and his wife to spend the 
rest of their days in the Winchester homestead. 

Hope read the kindly, pathetic letter of Mr. Hol- 
land, who had been pastor of the Presbyterian Church 
at Norriston when Miss Winchester was a girl, and 
with whom she had ever since kept up an occasional 
correspondence. Now his wife was ill. He was 
obliged to give up his charge at Portland, Oregon— 
not, he said, on account of his wife's failing health, 
but because he found that a younger pastor was 
desired by his people, at least by many of them. 
His wife longed for the sight of the home of their 
early married life, where their children were buried 
and where some familiar faces lingered still, and so 
he had ventured to ask Miss Winchester to inquire 
for him whether the cottage where the Widow Gray 
used to live would be for rent, and at what terms. 
They had a small income, an annuity, left to them 
only the year previous by one of his elders, a warm- 
hearted friend of theirs, and so on. 

In less than three weeks, Mr. and Mrs. Holland, 
sweet, lovely old people, were established in Miss 
Winchester's home. And then Cousin Bess broke 
down, and once more was very near the gates of 
death. It was a great comfort to her as well as to 



68 LINKS, 

poor Hope, that the dear old pastor and his wife 
were with them then. Mrs. Holland had regained 
her health under the double tonic of change of air 
and kindly sympathy, and was able to relieve Hope 
in many practical ways, as well as to comfort her by 
her motherly care and tenderness. 

The attack was a severe and tedious one of typhoid 
pneumonia, but at length the crisis was safely over 
and the patient began to rally. One day she drew 
Hope down to her, kissing and patting the white 
cheeks of her faithful little nurse, and said : 

" I am afraid Wayne would think I was not fit to 
take care of you, if he could see this pale face." 

The quick color rushed to Hope's cheeks, and she 
hid her face on Cousin Bess' pillow and whispered : 

"I don't know, Cousin Bess ; it is so long, perhaps 
he wouldn't care now." 

Then raising her face, she said, steadily enough : 
" How good you have always been to me, dear Cousin 
Bess ! It was dreadful to have you ill, but it is a 
great comfort to take care of you and to know you 
needed me." 

" My dear child, I shall need you more yet, for I 
am going to be very cross and crotchety, as I am 
entitled to be, now that I am getting well ; so you 
must run out for a walk and get strength for the ad- 
ditional worry of my whims." 

The days passed by, the autumn glories faded 
from the forests, and the maples and oaks around 
Miss Winchester's home scattered their brilliant 
leaves upon the grass ; but cousin Bess did not 



LINKS. 69 

recover strength, and her cough worried Hope more 
than she would confess. 

One day, after Dr. Butler's visit. Miss Winchester 
said to Hope, quite gaily : 

" Do you know Dr. Butler thinks of sending me off 
for a long sea voyage and to winter in a milder 
climate, and I believe the voyage to Rio and a few 
months in Petropolis or Tijuca are just what I need, 
so 1 think we had better sail, dear, by the next 
steamer." 

Hope's face was a study of changing emotions. 
With a flush of eager gladness she exclaimed : 

"Oh, that would be too delightful ! " but swiftly a 
shadow fell on the brightness, as she added : 

" But, oh — what would Wayne think, dear Cousin 
Bess ! " 

"What do you suppose he would say?" asked 
Miss Winchester steadily. " If he could think any 
less of either of us," she added severely, " I am very 
much mistaken in him." 

" Besides," she said, teasingly, " he need not know 
anything about us, if you like. His railroad and his 
Portuguese are quite enough to fill his heart and his 
life, of course." 

Hope was silenced, but not convinced ; although 
longing to see Wayne again, fought hard with maid- 
enly pride. But the decision did not rest with her, 
seeing that Dr. Butler and Cousin Bess were firmly 
convinced that " The Golden South Americas " pre- 
sented advantages beyond all other places for a 
convalescent. So Hope ordered and arranged their 
wardrobes, travelling suits and wraps, made all nee- 



yo LINKS. 

essary plans for Mr. and Mrs. Holland's comfort in 
their absence, and was so busy that she had no time 
to question the propriety of the step. She knew that 
Cousin Bess had prayed for guidance, and all she 
could do was to leave her troubled little heart in her 
heavenly Father's hands. 

The time drew near for them to sail. One stormy 
day Hope had been fighting hard against the fear 
that Wayne had forgotten, or at least had ceased to 
care for her. She had been very busy all day long, 
and just before tea she was going to the post-office 
to mail some letters, when Dr. Butler jumped out of 
his gig, shook hands with her and said : " Run in, 
my dear, and wait for the sunshine to-morrow for a 
walk. Oh ! letters to post ? Well, I'll take them to 
the office. Oh ! by the way, here are your letters. 
Good-bye ! " 

"Oh, Cousin Bess!" cried Hope, running back 
into the house, her face aglow with sudden joy. 

She gave Miss Winchester one letter, and escaped 
to her room to read her own. 

Wayne wrote to Cousin Bess that he thought he 
had now earned a right to speak to Hope. " Every 
day's absence makes her dearer to me, but I hope 
now her happiness is more to me than my own, and 
she must decide. If I have lost her love utterly by 
my foolish jealousy and desertion, I can only say I 
have deserved it. I know now that, although my 
dearest earthly wish should be denied, I shall not des- 
pair or throw my life away. There is too much to do in 
this world ! It seems to me life broadens and deepens 
every day. I write this to you, dear, kind friend, for 



LINKS. 7 ^ 

your comfort if Hope refuses me, but you may be 
sure I am terribly in earnest in pleading for her love 
and promise. It will be very hard to wait two 
months before I know my fate. It is well that I shall 
have to be desperately busy, for work has accumu- 
lated in my illness, and I must make up for lost 
time." Wayne mentioned two lucrative offers he 
had just received, and said they would remain open 
to him until Hope's answer came. 

Miss Winchester was conscious in reading Wayne's 
letter of a queer, unreasonable sense of regret, as a 
mother feels that she has lost her boy, in the full- 
grown man who bends over and kisses her ; but that 
first emotion vanished in hearty thankfulness for his 
Christian manliness, and she was ready to rejoice 
with Hope in her new joy. 

When Hope returned to Miss Winchester's room, 
it was with a very different face from any she had 
shown since Wayne's departure from Norriston. 
She hurried to cpusin Bess and hid her face on her 
shoulder, saying : " Oh, I am so glad — so glad ! " 
Cousin Bess held her tight and kissed her, and then 
said, quietly : 

" Perhaps, after all, we had better go to Florida or 
Mentone, dear ! Wayne might think something, or 
say something if we should go to Rio, you know." 

" I should be awfully disappointed if he didn't," 
answered Hope laughing. "You may tease me as 
much as you like now," said she, raising her April 
face to kiss Miss Winchester in merry defiance. " I 
don't mind it one bit ! " 



72 LINKS. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE SAME. 

So letters were written and posted immediately, by 
way of England, as well as by the American steamer, 
and Mr. and Mrs. Holland were told the secret of 
Hope's happy face. 

" Indeed, my dear, you couldn't look like Faith, 
Hope and Charity in one without giving some good 
reason for it ! " remarked old Mr. Holland, blessing 
her in his kind, fatherly way. 

The next evening brought an unusual visitor to the 
Winchester House, Wayne's father, Grosvenor Hal- 
sey, a noble-looking old gentleman, with much of 
Wayne's irresistible charm of manner. 

" I found two letters from my boy on my arrival here 
from Denver, and ventured to call. Miss Elizabeth, to 
say how earnestly I hope that my son's suit will be 
successful. You have been a better friend to Wayne 
than I have. Miss Elizabeth, and I am glad to ac- 
knowledge it. He is a brave fellow, and a far better 
man than his father is, or ever will be." Then he 
asked if he might see Hope, whom he remembered 
only as a bright, pretty little maid of ten. When 
she entered the room, with a soft blush in her cheeks 
and a glad light in her eyes, he met her with a court- 
ly grace and gentleness which made her think of her 
own dear father. 

Hope looked on and listened in a sort of dream 
while Mr. Halsey and Cousin Bess talked together of 



LINKS. . 73 

Wayne, and a little of old times and old friends. 
And the story came back to her mind, how she had 
heard long ago that Mr. Grosvenor Halsey had once 
upon a time been engaged to Miss Winchester, and 
then there was some trouble, and he had married 
Mary Gould, Wayne's mother, who lived only two 
years after her marriage, leaving a little boy too 
young to remember her. 

Mr. Halsey expressed his regret at hearing of Miss 
Winchester's illness, and approval of Dr. Butler's de- 
cision that she should take the four weeks' voyage to 
Rio, and winter in that milder climate. Apart from 
the benefit he trusted she would receive in restored 
health, he was glad, for a more selfish reason, that 
Dr. Butler advised Rio instead of Mentone or St. 
Augustine, as he himself was going to make Wayne 
a little visit, and would be delighted to be their 
escort. 

Hope looked up astonished and admired Miss 
Winchester's graceful tact, saying all that was suita- 
ble in her simple, unaffected way. When he left, he 
held Hope's hands for a moment, saying : '' I knew 
your father and mother well, my dear. Wayne will 
be a fortunate man if he wins their daughter." 

Hope looked up shyly, and, with a quick blush, 
said, gently : "I am very glad you think so, for he 
did that years ago ! " 

Five weeks from that day, at nine o'clock in the 
evening, the American steamer was entering the har- 
bor of Bahia, the old St. Salvador. 

" We shall stay here twenty-four hours," said the 
captain, " so you will have time in the morning. Miss 



74 LINKS. 

Archer, to go ashore and see the queer sights ; go to 
Baltimore John's and buy humming-birds, and ride 
up the hill in a Sedan chair on the shoulders of two 
darkies. What do you want, Jones ? " said he, turn- 
ing from the group of passengers to speak to the 
purser. 

" Nothing, sir," answered the purser ; " but a gen- 
tleman has come aboard and is going down to Rio, 
but wants his letters before we reach port." 

" All right, isn't it 1 " " As long as you are sure of 
him — of his identity." 

"Oh ! he has brought the Consul with him, sir." 

The captain and Mr. Halsey walked away with the 
purser, while Miss Winchester turned to Ralph How- 
land, who for the twentieth time at least had been 
pointing out to his pretty little wife the wonders of 
the southern heavens, and to whom he was now show- 
ing some of the familiar landmarks on the dimly 
lighted heights of Bahia. 

Miss Winchester and Hope had been much at- 
tracted by the enthusiastic, earnest young missionary 
and the sweet, bright woman he had just " wooed 
and married and a'." 

Many a pleasant hour on the long voyage had been 
spent in merry tests of Hope's Portuguese, and in 
planning pleasant drives and excursions in and 
around Rio. 

"You see," said Mr. Howland, with almost boyish 
eagerness, " Miss Winchester, I have still two weeks' 
leave of absence and some of my father's wedding 
present left, which he specially desired we should 
spend in holiday pleasure together. So Fanny and I 



LINKS. 75 

have decided to finish our wedding journey before 
we settle down to our earnest work." 

Miss Winchester thought lovingly of Wayne, but 
she did not speak of him, for it was Hope's wish that 
their little romance should be kept quiet until Wayne 
himself should come. 

By a sudden impulse Hope moved away from the 
group. The young moon had already set, and the 
light of the stars only seemed to make the shadows 
heavier on the side of the ship away from the lights 
of the town. Hope walked to the other end of the 
deck, and turned, standing in the shadow, thinking to 
herself : " In three more days we shall see Wayne ! " 

She noticed some one approaching rapidly from 
the saloon stairway, a stranger, with strong, erect fig- 
ure and easy carriage, dark eyes and hair, and an air 
of repressed excitement as well as authority. He 
was just passing her. Hope's heart beat so fast she 
thought he must hear it. A mute gesture of her 
hand— her girlish way long ago of dissuading him 
from some impulsive act— and he stopped suddenly 
and seized her hand. " Hope, Hope ! is it possible ? 
Is it really you ? " exclaimed Wayne, drawing her to 
a seat in the shadow of a boat. 

" Yes, it is my own self," said Hope, trembling so 
she could hardly speak. " You know Cousin Bess 
was ill, and the doctor sent her down here." 

" No I did not know. Oh ! then, Hope, you have 
never received my letter ? " 

" Oh, yes," replied Hope, gaining composure as 
Wayne lost his, " and answered it ! I suppose my 
letter is on board this ship ! " 



76 LINKS. 

"Tell me, Hope ; have pity on me ! " said Wayne, 
his face growing white with repressed emotion. 
Hope thought he must surely know already. A sud- 
den, shy impulse prompted her to say it was almost 
a pity not to wait for her letter. It was a very nice 
one, and took a whole hour to write. 

Wayne turned away and covered his face with 
his arms, leaning against the boat. " Oh ! Hope, 
Hope ! " he said, " is that all you can say ? " 

" Dear Wayne ! " she said, softly, laying her hand 
against his cheek, don't you know my answer ? " 

He raised his head. " Is it yes, my darling ? " he 
whispered, with a glad wonder in his voice. 

" It is yes, yes, yes ! " said Hope, softly, " till 
death us do part ! " 

A few moments later Wayne suddenly made his 
appearance beside Miss Winchester, kissed her affec- 
tionately, and grasped his father's outstretched hand, 
saying: I was coming to look for you, father. I 
learned only a few minutes ago that a gentleman 
named Halsey was on board." Then turning to 
Cousin Bess and looking at her earnestly, he said 
" Hope says you have been ill. I am so sorry. I 
hope you are all right now. 

" O-ho ! " laughed Mr. Halsey. " So you found 
a * living epistle ! ' That accounts for your dropping 
interest in the mail-bag. The purser has been dis- 
tractedly seeking the gentleman who was so eager for 
his letters for at least ten minutes." 

Wayne laughingly declared he was still very anx- 
ious for his letters, and trusted to his father to iden- 
tify him. 



LINKS. 77 

How they all gathered on the deck that evening, 
asking and answering questions and receiving expla- 
nations, need not be told ; nor how contented Hope 
was, just listening to Wayne's voice, whether his words 
were for her alone or for them all. 

" Perhaps you do not realize, Wayne," said Miss 
Winchester, with merry mischief in her voice, " how 
very difficult it was for me to induce Hope to come 
here with me ! I believe she was afraid you might 
think or say something if we came to Rio." 

" So I did ! " said Wayne, heartily, with a glad, 
frank look at Hope. " I thought it was too good to 
be true. But, since it is true, you needn't imagine 1 
am ever going to let either of you return to America." 

" Pretty well for you, my boy ! " said his fatheV, 
laughing ;"give an inch and take an ell." 

" Father, can you not say something for me ? " said 
Wavne, seriously, as he took his arm and they walked 
together to the end of the ship. 



CHAPTER V. 

THE SAME. 

Thus it was Miss Winchester and Hope were left 
to think and speak of Wayne's urgent wish that 
Hope and he should be married before leaving the 
steamer. 

" It is so sudden, Cousin Bess," said Hope slowly. 

" Yes, dear child. But Wayne dreads further sep- 



78 LINKS. 

aration for you both, and wishes to have the right to 
take care of you whatever comes. But you must let 
your own heart decide. If you had rather wait until 
he has finished his work in the mountains, tell him 
so, dear." 

" Dear Cousin Bess ! I don't want to leave you 
alone in this strange country." 

" My dear child," said Miss Winchester, tenderly, 
" you mustn't trouble your little heart about me ; for 
it is just to please me, particularly, that Wayne pro- 
poses to have the ceremony performed before we 
land, so as to secure the services of Mr. Rowland, 
whom we both must prefer to any stranger. And 
then, dear, you would not hesitate a moment if you 
knew how glad it would make me to know that he 
has, as he says, the right to take care of you, although 
I should be lonely and miss my sunshine. But he 
has thought of all this, too, and said he would like 
you to be with me a while at Petropolis ; and he 
would run out there every few days. He has so 
many kind friends there that it would not be like be- 
ing among strangers, you know. My darling, even 
if I were to be without the sight of your dear face for 
years, I could not wish to keep you away from 
Wayne ! I have known enough of the chances and 
changes of this mortal life, little girl, for myself and 
others ; and the hope of seeing you and Wayne happy 
together in your own Christian home was the thought 
that gave me courage to start for these ' Golden 
South Americas.' " 

Hope rested her head on Cousin Bess' lap as of 



LINKS. 79 

old, and held her dear hand close against her lips in 
silent love and gratefulness. 

" And now I am going to tell you my little secret, 
Hope ! " The young girl lifted her head with a won- 
dering thought of the old story — the unfinished 
romance of Cousin Bess' girlhood. Miss Winchester 
saw her thought even before the hurried words were 
' uttered. 

"No, dear," laughed Miss Winchester, happily, 
" I am not going to marry or be married to anybody. 
My secret is about that mysterious box which I in- 
sisted on your packing in my trunk. We must have 
that brought up, for it has riiy dear child's wedding- 
dress and veil, and gloves, slippers and fan, all ready 
for her. So I shall see you, dear, as a daughter of 
your own dear mother's should be — ' a fair, sweet 
bride in white.' " 

"Oh, Cousin Bess ! Cousin Bess ! " said Hope, "I 
haven't any words in which to thank you, and I can- 
not love you more than I do ! " 

So when Wayne and his father returned from their 
walk, Hope laid her hand in Wayne's and whispered : 
" It shall be as you wish, dear. No more partings, 
if God please." 

"No more partings, if God please!" echoed 
Wayne, as he took Hope on his arm and walked 
away with her, while Miss Winchester and his father 
watched them with proud gladness. 

" My darling, I can never thank you enough for 
this ! I knew it was a great thing to ask, but it 
seems to me I could never lose sight of you again." 

" It wouldn't be very much easier for me, Wayne, 



8o LINKS. 

to have you go off and perhaps be sick and die in 
those dreadful mountain camps, and never be able to 
reach you ! " said Hope, with a tremor in her voice. 

They were standing alone at the stern, watching 
the wave's steady plash against the ship. 

-' Heart's dearest," said Wayne, tenderly, bowing 
his head and thanking her in sweeter fashion than 
with words. 

" My Hope ! Not my far-away star Hope any 
more — thank God ! "' 

Then in quiet talk they made their happy plans 
together. 

" I will see Mr. Howland to-night, dear. I am 
very glad you and Cousin Bess like him so much, 
though to tell the truth I wouldn't object to the 
stupidest man that breathes, so long as he would per- 
form the ceremony to please you, and tie the knot 
good and tight," said Wayne, laughing. 

" You have fairly bewitched my father, Hope ; do 
you know it ? He promises to come down and see 
us every winter, and then insists on our going and 
staying with him in the summer ! Funny, isn't it ? 
The fact is, I suppose, he doesn't realize that I am a 
hard worker, and am happy and successful in my 
work, too. Ah ! I have so much to work for now." 

Before they said good-night, Wayne stopped to 
look at his letters in the lighted saloon. "Those 
are for by-and-by," said he, putting Hope's letter and 
Miss Winchester's in his pocket. Looking at the ad- 
dress of another, his face changed so that Hope ex- 
claimed : " What is it, Wayne ; what is the matter ? " 

He quickly tore the letter open, exclaiming : " Jack ! 



LINKS. 8 1 

It's from Jack. It is true. He is not dead! Oh! 
Hope and Cousin Bess, Jack is alive and well. 
Thank God. It seems almost too much ! " 

Then they read his letter together, and learned 
how, after floating on a piece of a raft for nearly forty- 
eight hours, he had been picked up by a bark and 
carried to Madeira. He had been very ill with brain 
fever, but had recovered entirely, and was stronger 
than ever now. He had written to Wayne, to his 
sister, to the owners of the Santa Lucia at Rio, as 
well as to the firm to which he was going in Valpa- 
raiso immediately upon landing at Madeira. The 
Consul and English residents at Madeira had shown 
him great kindness, and he had accepted a position 
in a college recently established there, and had sent 
for his sister to come and live with him. He had 
wondered at never hearing from Wayne, but had 
concluded that he had left Brazil, until, he said, " the 
other day the boy to whom I had given my letters to 
post, when I landed, came to me and confessed that 
he had kept the money, and had destroyed the letters 
without mailing any of them ! " 

Miss Winchester's kind letter to his sister had 
been forwarded from place to place, and had been 
received only the day Jack wrote. How glad he was 
to hear of Wayne again, and how grateful to Miss 
Winchester for writing ! Except for her kindly sym- 
pathy for his sister, he would never have heard again 
of Wayne, he supposed. 

"God's providence again, dear old fellow," wrote 
Jack! " I hope you love and trust him now ! " 

" Help me to be thankful all my life, dear Hope,'* 
6 



82 LINKS. 

said Wayne, earnestly. " God has crowned me with 
loving kindness and tender mercies. Let us live for 
him, sweetheart ! " 

Wayne Halsey's wish was fulfilled in a sweeter, 
fuller sense than he had dared to dream ; for beneath 
the Southern Cross, dimmed now by the brighter 
moonlight, he stood with his fair bride, Hope, on his 
arm, while in the old sweet words they plighted their 
troth, bowing their heads under the solemn blessing 
of their Master. 

"Whom, therefore, God hath joined together, let 
not man put asunder." 

And so they entered the harbor together ! 

No human life there is, so low or mean 
But, in its widening or its lessening sphere, 

Impinges on some other life, and leads 
To good and evil, here and after here. 



VALLEY OF CHAMOUNY, 83 



CHAMOUNY AND THE MER DE GLACE. 
I. 

GENEVA TO CHAMOUNY. 

" Some said, ' John print it ; ' others said ' Not so.' 
Some said, ' It might do good ; ' others said * No.' " 

The quaint lines in the preface to " Pilgrim's Prog- 
ress," which had greatly taken my fancy as a child, 
came back to mind, when, in April, during a few 
days' stay in Geneva, we asked counsel concerning 
the advisability of a trip to Chamouny. 

Cook, the ubiquitous, in the person of his agent, 
replied promptly : " Too early. We do not advise 
you to go. There is no regular diligence service 
now, — only one or two lumbering old coaches. We 
sell no tickets. Possibly in ten days or a fortnight." 

Another said : " Go by all means. The drive there 
is worth your while, even though you should not be 
able to make any excursions." 

" Don't go with a lady unless she is strong and 
hardy," advised still another. " You will probably 
find poor accommodations, and be obliged to rough 
it If you can, wait a month and then go." 

So — we went. 

A lovely bright morning was Thursday, the 19th 
of April. We discussed and settled the mooted 
question, over our breakfast, sent for Jacques, our 



84 CHAMOUNY AND 

charioteer of the day previous, and concluded a bar- 
gain, engaging him to drive us in a light caleche, 
with his uncle's black mare Cotot, to the Hotel Cha- 
mouny that night, remain there Friday and bring us 
back to Gelieva Saturday evening. 

At nine o'clock we started, with portmanteau, 
warm wraps and well-filled lunch-basket; landlord, 
clerk and porters wishing us a pleasant journey and 
a safe return. 

Jacques was a lively Swiss boy from Freiburg, — 
famous for its grand organ, — of which the young fel- 
low was justly proud. He amused us much by his 
bright talk on the journey, narrating to us among 
other things, how he had, the previous summer, con- 
ducted to Chamouny Monsieur le Ministre de I'in- 
struction publique, and Madame. Yes, and with this 
very mare Cotot; how enchanted Monsieur Jules 
Ferry was with the excursion, with Cotot, with every- 
thing ; how many hundred francs he had bestowed 
upon a bridal party at Salenches ; how indeed he 
had given his purse to Jacques, and had asked him to 
keep account of all the expenses. All this and much 
more was told, with evident pleasure in the retrospect 
and with a charming naivete, quite proof against 
Maurice's gentle quizzing. 

The suburbs of Geneva are indeed lovely, and de- 
serve all that has been said and sung in their praise. 
For miles the road, along the blue waters of the 
Lake, is fringed with beautiful villas and pleasure 
grounds smiling in the presence of the towering 
mountains, like children playing around the feet of a 
king. 



THE MER DE GLACE. 85 

It was blossom time — a most charming season in 
any cultivated, fruit-bearing country, and we had not 
become weary of the flower-laden trees, though our 
journey had brought us through the peach and 
orange groves of the Riviera, and the orchards of 
Tuscany and fertile Lombardy. The road to Cha- 
mouny is excellent ; a great part of the way lies 
along the Arve, and the ascent, for thirty or forty 
miles is very gradual. Beyond Chene, the Mole, a 
massive pyramid of a mountain, blocks the view. 
Perched on the rocks near Contamines-sur-Arve rise 
the two ruined towers of the ancient castle of Far- 
cigny, a most alluring scene for a sketch, if one only 
were an artist, and could linger by the way. At 
•Bonneville, Jacques, mindful of his good mare, and 
also, perhaps, of his own second breakfast, ordered 
Cotot unharnessed and stopped for two hours. We 
wandered through the little town, wrote a brief bull- 
etin to distant friends, and gave ourselves up to won- 
dering what the people thought and felt, how they 
lived in their quiet valley-home, locked in by the 
Brezon and the Mole. Our unuttered question re- 
ceived eloquent answer from the mute marble. 
Standing before a monument " in honor of the natives 
of the Department who fell in the Franco-German war," 
we could easily guess the story of many a home in that 
valley of Haute Savoie. We passed also a monu- 
ment to King Charles Felix of Sardinia, which nar- 
rates — I really have forgotten what. 

About twenty-six miles from Geneva lies the vil- 
lage of Cluses, nearly half way, in point of distance, 
between Geneva and Chamouny. At the entrance 



86 CHAMOUN-Y AND 

rises a plain, ugly building, Ecole de Horologerie, 
for this is a watch-makers' village. It looks drearily 
quiet and precise. However interesting to the lover 
of his kind may be the humanity, vanquished or vic- 
torious, behind those dull walls, the village itself, to 
a passing stranger, is not attractive. It in no way 
fulfils my childish ideal of a Swiss watchmaking ham- 
let, wonderful and picturesque, and I cannot help 
feeling as though I had been cheated. 

A few miles further brought us close to the bold 
precipices of the Aiguille de Varens, where we caught 
the first glimpse of the beautiful cascade of Arpenaz, 
shooting out from the rocky cliffs on the left, and de- 
scending in graceful swaying curves, broken at last 
by projecting rocks. We were told that it strongly 
resembles the Staubbach, in the Lauterbrunner. 
Another waterfall a little beyond, and which seemed 
to be unnamed, certainly reminded us of the Yosem- 
ite Bridal Veil, so ethereal and fairy-like was its de- 
scent from the heights above. We had just passed 
this second cascade when we met two wagon loads 
of peasants out for a holiday. Jacques informed us 
that it was a wedding party bound for the chapel of 
Saint — somebody, — after which they were to return 
to Sallenches for their wedding feast. 

A veritable bridal veil half hid the smiles and 
blushes of the peasant maid who sat meekly sand- 
wiched between two attendants on the front seat, 
while in the following wagon, her mother held a like 
position of honor. 

Upon reaching Sallenches, we found, somewhat to 
our amusement, that Monsieur Jacques had laid his 



THE MER DE GLACE. 87 

plans to tarry there for the night. (We remembered 
Jules Ferry and the wedding feast, and wondered 
whether Jacques mistook us for the American Minis- 
ter and his wife !) 

" Pardon, Monsieur, would it not be far better for 
Madame ? She must already be excessively fatigued 
with the long, long journey, and Chamouny is still 
far distant, and the way is steep, and it will be dark 
and dangerous, and Cotot cannot travel fast at night, 
so it would be late, late before we could arrive at 
Chamouny. But in the early morning, Cotot will 
travel like the wind, and Madame will be rested, and 
Monsieur can start as early as he pleases, and reach 
Chamouny in good time, and have all the day before 
him ! " 

Poor Jacques ! I don't believe he knew that an 
immortal countryman of ours years ago sang " Excel- 
sior." I am afraid he wished the two "unpretending 
American citizens " were a little more like the tracta- 
ble Monsieur Jules Ferry. At last discovering that 
Maurice remained unmoved by vivid representations 
of the perils of a midnight drive along precipices and 
break-neck curves, and the possible fainting of Cotot 
by the way, as well as by the pleasant tongue of the 
bright-faced landlady of the little inn, and the charm- 
ing novelty of a peasant's wedding feast, "a sadder 
and a wiser man," Jacques disconsolately ordered Co- 
tot to be harnessed, and we again resumed our journey. 
We were amused to notice that, even in his desper- 
ate state of mind, Jacques could not forego the gal- 
lant flourish and crack of the whip and spirited rush 



88 C HA MO UN Y AND 

of Cotot, which marked our departure from every 
halting-place on the road. 

We had lingered so long that the sun was near the 
horizon when we left Sallenches. Soon the April 
daylight faded, and the full moon arose in a cloud- 
less sky. It was the close of a perfect day. A few 
miles beyond Sallenches, we had a lovely view from 
the crown of a hill which we mounted only to descend, 
upon Jacques' discovery that he had taken a wrong 
road. 

Before crossing the bridge over the Bon-Nant, we 
halted at the door of a little inn, and again the per- 
sistent Jacques offered us the opportunity to avoid 
death and destruction by tarrying over night. 

Beyond Bon-Nant, the ascent was perceptible ; in 
many places the road being steep. The views grew 
wilder and grander as we ascended, at times skirting 
the edge of a precipice, with a towering battlement 
on one side, and the gorge of the Arve far below. 
But the drive is entirely safe, the road being kept in 
excellent order, and protected by walls several feet 
high, wherever it runs very near the verge. 

Leaning over the side of the carriage through the 
tops of tall pines lining the sides of the gorge, we 
caught fleeting glimpses of the river rushing from its 
birthplace in the glaciers of Mont Blanc, towards 
the far-off lovely waters of Geneva. The moonlight, 
wonderful glorifier of scenes wild as well as peaceful, 
gave an unlooked-for charm to the changing scenery. 
It brought vividly to mind a night drive over the 
mountains to the Pluton geysers, with a typical Cali- 
fornia driver, long ago. 



THE MER DE GLA CE. 89 

Suddenly we plunged into midnight darkness and 
heard the echoes of a thousand years roaring through 
the gloom. Beyond the tunnel at the opening of the 
valley of Le Chatelard, we had a fine view of the 
irregular, jagged pinnacles of the Aiguilles du Midi. 

But the crowning glory of that moonlight drive was 
the vision of Mont Blanc, suddenly towering before 
us in unearthly, radiant whiteness. It was impossi- 
ble then to regard it coolly, as so many feet high, an 
Alpine summit, which might be scaled by the little 
race of men. 

Beneath far softer skies, Vesuvius stands guard at 
midnight, with fiery, restless glow, throbbing like the 
heart of a demon, eager to destroy. Mont Blanc 
in the moonlight, is a revelation of the beauty of 
holiness, unapproachable, soul-searching, glorious in 
purity. Through the solemn silence, in the presence of 
that heavenly witness, did we not hear the deep heart- 
cry of the ages, answered, thank God, in the fullness 
of time on Calvary : " How shall man be just before 
God ? " 

The night wore on, the views became narrower, 
and at last we entered the Valley of Chamouny. We 
passed the glaciers de Gria, de Taconay and de Bos- 
sons, and saw in the distance the lower part of the 
Mer de Glace. The first sight of the glaciers was 
rather disappointing. I could not realize the im- 
mensity of those ice-fields. They shone and glistened 
in the moonlight, while the edges of deep rifts, inter- 
secting them, gleamed like lapus lazuli or sapphire. 
The beautiful color of the crevasses is noticeable at a 
great distance. But we had become tired of moun- 



go CHAMOUNY AND 

tains and glaciers, and were very glad to arrive at 
our hotel in the slumbering village of Chamouny, 
and to fall asleep under the shadow of the everlast- 
ing hills. 



II. 

SOFT SNOW ON THE MER DE GLACE. 

A CURIOUS sense of the smallness of the world, to- 
gether with a conviction of the inexorable nature of 
mundane needs and human limitations, grows upon 
the traveler as, again and again, recur the appointed 
times for all things under the sun. One may grow 
hungry among the buried cities of the past, thirsty on 
the summit of Vesuvius, sleepy in the Colosseum 
itself, and dreadfully tired before the oldest pictures 
of the very oldest masters. So it was not amazing 
that, after a dreamless sleep, our earliest waking 
thoughts in the Valley of Chamouny should be di- 
vided between breakfast and the Mer de Glace. 

While a solemn-looking butler laid the table in the 
drawing-room, Maurice descended to make inquiries 
about possible excursions and a guide. I, Dorothy, 
remained up-stairs and interviewed His Solemn 
Highness concerning the same absorbing questions. 
Now in English, and again in French, he asserted 
that it would be " tout a fait, impossible to cross the 
Mer de Glace at present, that the recent snows were 
still unmelted, and that no one would undertake such 
an expedition. To the Chapeau — oh, that was quite 
possible ! " 



THE MER DE GLACE. 91 

After a short absence, up came Maurice cheerfully, 
and informed me in confidence,, that he had begun 
by mistaking the obsequious landlord for a guide, on 
the lookout for a party (I believe that mistake was 
registered in the bill), but that he had found one, and 
engaged him to take us wherever he judged it safe 
and our one day would permit. The guide was an 
accredited one of ten years' standing and was to pro- 
vide a peasant with two mules ; they were to be 
ready in half an hour. The landlord had tried to 
dissuade Maurice from attempting any excursion, as 
the day was cloudy, and already a mist was gather- 
ing, but to those who have no to-morrow, to-day is 
precious, even though it be not one of sunshine. 

So we ate our breakfast, of which I remember one 
item, the delicate white honey, for which, as well as 
the Mer de Glace, Chamouny is noted. 

Of course it was very commonplace and by mill- 
ions of sensations removed from that aesthetic Nir- 
vana, apparently the goal of our exotic Anglo-Hindoo 
civilization, but it seemed to me almost too good 
to be true that we were really there, at Chamouny, 
and just about to start for we didn't know what. A 
vague doubt arose in my mind as to my personal 
identity, and I told Maurice I felt like the old dame 
in the Mother Goose of our childhood, who woke up 
and exclaimed : 

" If this indeed be I, 
As I suppose it be ! " 

Before I descended to mount my mule, the kind 
old landlady questioned me as to the warmth of my 
wrap and the stoutness of my boots, and solemnly 



92 CHAMOUNY AND 

advised me to go no further than the Chalet at the 
Chapeau. " Even though Monsieur should go, Ma- 
dame, do not you ! Once I went, and in fine weather, 
but never again ! " 

In the presence of the landlord and servants wait- 
ing, continental fashion, around the door, Maurice 
repeated to Paul that he wished to go to the Chapeau, 
and if he judged it safe, to Montanvert, across the 
Mer de Glace, that we desired to see as much as we 
could in our one day, and must leave the question of 
safety to him as guide. 

We rode through the little village, Paul holding the 
bridle of my mule, and Blue-blouse walking beside 
Maurice. It made me feel as though I were five 
years old again, and taking my first ride, but it af- 
forded an excellent opportunity to practice my French 
at Paul's expense, and to gain some local informa- 
tion. The mules were evidently used to bridle paths 
and trained to travel only in single file. After some 
futile attempts to bring his animal abreast of mine 
and be sociable, Maurice subsided and jogged along 
behind, like a smoking philosopher. 

Before breakfast, a pleasant-faced Swiss maid had 
pointed out to me by name the various mountain- 
peaks bounding the valley, so I felt a little acquainted 
with the Brevent and the Aiguilles Rouges, and the 
grand Mont Blanc chain. It seemed to me we were too 
close to them to see them truly. As we rode through 
the valley, Paul exchanged occasional remarks with 
those we met, but they spoke such a singular patois 
that I could not understand what was said. They 
looked at us rather curiously, and sometimes shook 



THE MER DE GLACE. 93 

their heads. I was very sorry that they seemed to 
disapprove of us, but there was no help for it. 

The short and usual route to the Mer de Glace 
from Chamouny is by the Montanvert, but it was 
impassable by reason of the still unmelted snows. 
Paul pointed out the direction of the bridle-path, past 
the English church and across the meadows, saying : 
" In the summer we pass up there, but at present it 
is not possible, we must now make a detour and reach 
the Mer de Glace, perhaps, from the Chapeau." 

Strange that this lovely valley, with its numerous 
hotels and fifteen or twenty thousand of visitors 
yearly, should, six centuries ago, have borne such a 
villainous reputation that no traveler dared sleep a 
night in any house in the neighborhood ! One can- 
not but admire the religious heroism of St. Francis 
de Sales, in forcing his way on foot, somewhere in 
1600, into this dark corner of his diocese, to look 
after the "few sheep in the wilderness of les Mon- 
tagnes Maudites." I am very thankful our lot was 
not cast in those "good old times." 

After an hour's ride, the latter part of the way up 
a zig-zag bridle-path on the edge of a mountain, we 
dismounted and left our mules in charge of Blue- 
blouse until our return. Then we began to climb. 
The way was rather rough, but jagged rocks may be 
scaled, and there was some interest in walking on 
the crust of snow twenty or thirty feet deep — snow 
which had once fallen in an avalanche and was there- 
fore slow to melt. Maurice went ahead, like a born 
mountaineer. 

"Monsieur needs no guide," remarked Paul. He 



94 CHAMOUNY AND 

was evidently of a contrary opinion regarding Ma- 
dame. 

The Chalet is only a rude little hut, with over-hang- 
ing roof, set, for the sake of shelter, in an angle of 
the mountain. We made the pleasing discovery, 
that, although open to travelers during the season, it 
was now closed and locked. 

A proposal of the guide, to leave Madame sitting 
on a plank outside the Chalet, with a lunch-basket, 
for three or four hours in a fine drizzle, while Mon- 
sieur and the guide should attempt to cross the Mer 
de Glace, was received with small favor. Besides, I 
cherished the secret conviction that Maurice would 
run fewer risks if I were along. 

"Very well, Madame! Then we will forward by 
the Mauvais Pas. It is properly called La Roche de 
Muret, and truly I think it does not merit its evil 
name." 

We paused a few minutes and looked up and down 
the glacier. Miles away, beyond our sight, the river 
of ice, like the summer river, has its birthplace among 
the everlasting hills, and, like other rivers, receives 
tributaries, forms cataracts, presses through narrow 
gorges and again widens out into a broader and 
smoother channel. But it looks like an irregular 
mass of snowy hills piled up in a lofty gorge, the 
tumbled massive waves running in a general direc- 
tion parallel with the sides of the gorge, their monot- 
onous whiteness being relieved at intervals by the 
gleam of blue rifts intersecting them. Opposite us, 
back of the Montanvert, rose the Aiguilles de Char- 
moz and du Midi, and the Dome and Aiguille du 



THE MER DE GLACE. 95 

Gouter, both in the mist ; even the sharp outlines of 
the Aiguille du Midi were indistinct. 

Our path lay along the face of a sheer precipice, 
the foot of the Aiguille du Bochard (as I learned 
afterwards), which thrusts itself out to the margin of 
the glacier. Then and there, I took my first lesson 
in Alpine climbing, a very easy one it doubtless 
appears to mountaineers, but it was quite enough for 
a novice who was not endowed by Nature with the 
apparatus of a fly, suitable for locomotion along a 
vertical plane. I admit that there are nicks in the 
perpendicular rocks, but I rejoice to have the testi- 
mony of Prof. Forbes to the fact that those rocks are 
very slippery. 

There is also a slender iron bar, riveted at intervals 
to the face of the rock, but just where it was most 
needful, turning a corner, or at a fearfully steep place, 
was it not sure to be missing ? 

Paul was in advance and led me, while Maurice 
followed close behind, but I confess I crept along 
trembling and nervous. Occasionally I was forced 
to glance down the sheer precipice to the chilly peaks 
of the glacier below. Comfortless as it looked down 
there, I silently echoed the Shepherd boy's song : 

" He that is down need fear no fall ! " 

At last I grew dizzy and told Maurice I was going to 
fall, I could go no further, that he must let me 
go back to the Chalet, and he could then go on if he 
wished, with the guide. He quietly assured me that 
it would be more difficult to return than to go for- 
ward, that he was morally certain I could do it with 



96 CHAMOUNY AND 

perfect safety, and that he wasn't in the slightest 
degree dizzy himself, Paul asserted that there was 
absolutely no danger whatever, and that moreover 
we were very near the end of that unpleasant path. 
I reflected that probably thousands of my fellow- 
women — among them some of our own friends — had 
traversed that path before me without accident, so I 
plucked up courage and held on my trembling way, 
remembering with hearty repentance the occasions in 
the past, when I had secretly considered very unnec- 
essary the tremors of nervous friends. " Maurice," 
I confessed, "the pride is all taken out of me ; I 
used to think I was a good climber ! " 

Then we began to descend along a snowy ledge 
towards the moraine. I tried to walk as Paul di- 
rected, in his footsteps, but they were a little too 
large, and again and again the soft snow around my 
feet yielded, and Maurice caught me as I was about 
to take a short route to the glacier. Paul, perceiving 
the difficulty, turned to make some nicks in the snow 
with his pick, which made my progress very com- 
fortable. He was, perhaps, fifteen feet in advance 
of us, Maurice having taken the guide's place in 
leading me, when we heard a queer, hollow, crack- 
ling sound above us, almost as though it were in the 
sky. Paul looked back and upward, and with a sharp 
cry, began to run forward along the ledge, calling 
out with frantic gestures, to hurry us (I think I hear 
him now !) : " 'n avalanche, 'n avalanche, avancez, 
vite, vite, toujours, toujours avancez, dangereux — ! "' 



THE MER DE GLACE. 97 

III. 

THE SAME. 

From the white heights directly above us, tore 
down masses of rock and snow, tumbling, crashing, 
leaping from cliff to cliff, falling just where we had 
been walking, and sweeping every obstacle out of 
their way, in their final plunge over the brink. 

How we ever ran so swiftly along that slippery, 
slushy ledge I do not know. There was only time 
for a heart-cry to the Helper, and He surely heard 
and answered, granting the strength and sure- 
footedness we needed. 

When we reached the spot where the guide awaited 
us, there was very little breath to spare, for a few 
minutes. We still heard the rattle of rocks and 
debris falling down the sides of the precipice. "A 
few seconds more ! " said Maurice. 

Paul remarked by way of apology : " It is very 
seldom that it happens thus. In the summer there 
is no danger from the avalanche. Only in the spring, 
when as now, the warm days come at first, and the snow 
above begins to melt, loosening the earth around the 
rocks and trees, it needs but the slightest jar to start 
an avalanche ! Ah, in the summer, it is quite, quite 
safe, and also in the winter, but just now, it is not! 
We shall have no more now," he added cheerfully. 

The moraine was not pleasant to climb ; the route 
along it stands out in my memory as an appropriate 
type of the course of true love. Not being notably 
7 



98 CHAMOUNY AND 

scientific, we did not pause to examine the structure 
of tlie jagged rocks which gave their weighty, silent 
testimony to the irresistible downward course of the 
mighty ice-river. All my mental and physical muscle 
was engaged in scrambling over, jumping across, or 
squeezing between those disagreeable rocks. " Mon- 
sieur should ascend Mont Blanc," ejaculated Paul. 
"He could do it well, not now, but" (as usual) "in 
the summer. He is a veritable chamois." I noticed 
Paul didn't propose that Madame should ascend 
Mont Blanc ! My mind had become reconciled to 
the idea of scaling rocks indefinitely, and, being 
much interested in taking one step at a time, I was 
quite unprepared for the guide's announcement, in 
his presentation tones : " Behold, Madame, the Mer 
de Glace." 

As Paul would say "in the summer," it would 
doubtless appear quite different, but under the dull sky 
that April day, it was dreary and lonely as an arctic 
snowfield. Looking up and down the glacier, as far 
as eye could reach, — and of course the range was 
limited, both on account of the curving sides of the 
gorge and the mist, — there was no track or trace of 
man. It was difficult to realize that the billowy 
frozen sea on which we stood was bearing us along 
at the rate of twenty or thirty inches every twenty- 
four hours, toward Chamouny. 

Now came the momentous question — should we try 
to cross the glacier? 

Paul cautiously remarked: "The snow is perhaps 
not too soft. In the summer (!) there is no difficulty. 
There remain then, only the unmelting snow and ice, 



THE MER DE GLACE, 99 

and one can well see the crevasses. Now, many are 
hidden by the lately fallen snows, but — If Monsieur 
pleases, 1 will advance and sound the snow." 

He returned and said we could at least try ; we 
might go a little way even if we should not be able 
to cross the glacier. It was like forcing a passage 
through snowdrifts of various depths, over possible 
chasms and through, what was to us, an absolutely 
trackless waste. Paul directed me, as before, to 
walk in his steps, an experience not always to be 
desired, for he occasionally sunk to his waist in the 
snow, and I, unlike George the Third, desiring to 
"profit" by the example of my predecessor, only 
repeated the experiment after him. Maurice held 
in his hand a light olive-wood stick, which had done 
him pleasant service climbing Vesuvius, and was now 
useful in gauging the depth of the snow ; so he often 
avoided the pitfalls into which we in advance fre- 
quently disappeared. His strong hand was always 
ready to help me up, but once in a while my foot be- 
came tightly wedded in a ,crack of the rocks and it 
was necessary for Paul to dig the snow away all 
around me before Maurice and he could extricate me. 
It certainly was amusing, though it was pretty hard 
work too. I could not help thinking what a peculiar 
series of instantaneous views and disappearances 
we would have afforded to a photographer. If the 
moraine yielded special opportunities for climbing, 
the snow-path across the glacier was as abundant in 
frantic plunges. The danger lay in the unseen cre- 
vasses. Several times Paul cried out just as we were 
stepping over the verge. The soft snow lies over the 



lOO C HA MO UN Y AND 

inouths of these yawning gulfs, and often only a nar- 
row zigzag line, where it has begun to melt, reveals 
to the practised eye the hidden danger. Once I be- 
gan to slip into a crevasse, or moulin, — I don't know 
which it was. Paul and Maurice were near enough 
to seize me by my arms, draw me up, and set me safe- 
ly on the further side, before I was aware that it was 
anything more than an ordinary plunge. It was not 
pleasant to think of going down suddenly 600, 300, or 
even 100 feet out of sight. The snow had been loos- 
ened by my plunge so there was an open chasm behind 
me ; Maurice bent down and looked into it. " There's 
a hole as big as a house down there, and I don't 
know how deep. There seems to be a black pool at 
the bottom, but the sides are as blue as the sky." 
Paul and Maurice threw some ice and stones down 
the fissure, I suppose for the pleasure of hearing the 
hollow rattling sound. It gave me a positively sick- 
ening sensation. It seemed as though one of us 
might so easily disappear and perish, while those left 
behind would be utterly powerless to help or save. 

\i one were disposed to moralize, the formation of 
these blue-lipped glacier chasms would yield a fitting 
type of the growth of evil. First, the imperceptible 
downward progress, then a check resulting in a strain, 
an over-strain, and then a tiny fissure, a line, Tyndall 
says, too narrow to receive his knife-blade, but it is 
*• the little rift within the lute." And so, day after 
day, month after month, slowly, slowly but ever sure- 
ly, it grows and widens aod at last becomes a chasm 
of death. Ah ! it is not an agreeable subject. The 
only pleasant consideration is that sometimes, under 



THE MER BE GLACE. lOi 

pressure, crevasses have been known to close. We 
will take the consolatory hope in carrying out the 
comparison. 

At length Paul remarked : " Behold, Monsieur, 
we are across the Mer de Glace. Before us is the 
Montanvert." 

*' How about going up to the hotel," queried Mau- 
rice. 

*' No, no. Monsieur. That is altogether impossible 
at present. Also, the hotel is still closed." 

Between us and the snow-covered side of the Mon- 
tanvert, lay a trackless bed of snow. Should we go 
further ? 

" Just as Monsieur and Madame desire. We are, 
in fact, across the Mer de Glace " (a gentle fiction, 
invented in the interest of safety, I imagine). " Be- 
tween us and the rocks, there is only the same as 
you have already traversed, — snow and crevasses, and 
the snow lies very deep in those hollows. If I had 
brought a rope, we might attempt to cross there," 
pointing to some jutting icy crags, "but without a 
rope it would not be safe." His only excuse for not 
providing himself with the ordinary equipment of a 
guide, was that he had not imagined we would desire 
to venture so far. 

With a man's natural dislike to stop short of the 
goal, Maurice was disposed to go forward. Paul ad- 
vised in such case, that Madame should remain and 
await their return. Madame, however, objected, and 
Paul thereupon confessed that he did not know just 
where the crevasses lay, — there were fewer on the 
Montanvert side than by the Chapeau, but the snow 



I02 C HA MO UN Y AND 

had thawed very little, and there would probably be 
no trace of the lips of the fissures, and it would be 
necessary to sound before every step. 

I looked across the smooth, unbroken whiteness, 
hiding danger and perhaps death, under so fair and 
peaceful an exterior. 

Much to my relief, Maurice turned to me and 
said : " Dorothy, the man's afraid himself ; it would 
be simply foolhardy for us to insist upon going, just 
for a whim." And so it was decided. 

" Very well. Monsieur, then does Madame desire 
to rest and take some refreshment before we return 1 " 

A fine drizzle and a deepening fog rendered us all 
quite willing to postpone rest and luncheon until 
later. Paul showed me the direction in which we 
had crossed the glacier. It was a little south of west, 
by Maurice's compass. "We must return by anoth- 
er route," remarked Paul, "for we wish not to go 
back along the path where the avalanches now so 
easily fall. Permit me, Monsieur, to go forward and 
discover whether a short way is possible. Otherwise 
we must walk much further on the glacier." Mau- 
rice and I waited for him and looked around us. It 
was a desolate scene, a vast moor of ice and snow. 
Over towards the Chapeau, w^e could see the shim- 
mer of crevasses even under the deepening fog. I 
was glad that dear friends across the sea could not 
see us just at that moment. Twice Paul returned 
saying : " It is impossible. If I had a rope ! but with- 
out a rope, no ! " The fog seemed to grow heavier 
every moment. Paul and Maurice looked at each 
other in silence. '• We have trusted ourselves to 



THE MER DE GLACE. 103 

you," said Maurice quietly. "We will follow where 
you lead. It is for you to decide." 

" Then, forward along the glacier. It is far, and 
Madame must be already very tired, but it is the only 
way." 

I declared myself quite ready, and indeed felt en- 
tirely content that I was not obliged to attempt to be 
a fly again, although by this time possible avalanches 
and the Mauvais Pas had lost much of their terrors. 

It was truly a long walk and a fatiguing one along 
the glacier, but we had become accustomed to plung- 
ing through snowdrifts and jumping across crevasses, 
and realized that every moment was precious, for the 
fog was heavy. I wondered how Paul could discover 
any landmarks, and a story came back to my mind 
which 1 had read when a child, about a highland 
shepherd girl who had perished in the cruel mist close 
beside her father's door. It did not seem incredible. 

Maurice was still behind us. I begged him to 
speak often, to assure me of his safety. It seemed 
to me that he was sometimes in danger ; he after- 
wards told me of two very narrow escapes on that 
homeward march. 

I fancy Paul feared that my strength or courage 
would fail, for he frequently assured Maurice that he 
might truly be proud of Madame ; that she walked 
remarkably well and possessed marvelous endurance. 

After we had fairly recrossed the glacier, he 
remarked that ours had been a very unusual experi- 
ence ; that not one of a hundred ladies could have 
made such a success ; that the route we had taken 
was equal to crossing the Mer de Glace three times ; 



I04 CHAMOUN-y AND 

that the passage in the summer was nothing in com- 
parison, and wound up by declaring, in true French 
style, that he was perfectly charmed with Madame. 

I think he was deeply grateful to me for not faint- 
ing in some inconvenient place on the way, which, 
judging from my bad beginning on the Mauvais Pas, 
he probably imagined quite possible. At all events 
we found him a very pleasant and respectful guide. 

We left the glacier at a point considerably north 
of the one where we had struck it several hours pre- 
vious. After a very rough climb over the moraine, 
Paul pausing a moment on an immense boulder, to 
look, although in vain, for some Alpine stones for us, 
we regained the path, and soon reached the spot 
where we had deposited our lunch basket near the 
chalet. 

The fog lay thick and white over the snowy valley 
which we had left, but on ascending, we found a 
clearer atmosphere. 

Once again we heard the rushing, hollow sound of 
an avalanche, but this time it was a smaller one, 
entirely of snow. It lodged on a cliff above us, so 
there was no need to run. Thereupon Paul remarked 
with emphasis : " Monsieur and Madame are very 
fortunate. They have to-day seen something of dif- 
ferent kinds of Alpine dangers, avalanches, crevasses, 
fog. What more could one desire than safely to 
come through them all ? " 

" Very true ! " responded Maurice, and, to me 
*' AUee samee, he ought to have brought a rope." 

But behold, Blue-blouse and the mules quite as 
tired of waiting, I fancy, as we were of walking. I 



THE MER DE GLACE. 105 

mounted my mule, but Maurice preferred to walk. 
So in due time, we arrived at the hotel, safe and 
sound, with a comfortable and reassured sense of 
personal identity and a grateful appreciation of a 
good fire, and warm, dry clothing. 

So ended our.brief experience of soft snow on the 
Mer de Glace. 

If any one who reads this true record, should ever 
be tempted to try the experiment himself, let me 
herewith impart to him, freely and emphatically, the 
often quoted advice of Punch, though truly not in the 
spirit of that delightful and unblushing cynic : 

'' Don't f' 



io6 GERTY MORSE'S ANSWER. 



HOW GERTY MORSE SAID "YES. 



"Go away, Joe, please, I'm busy." 

" Gertrude Lathrop Morse, spinster, are you deaf.?" 

*' Yes, and rapidly becoming more so! " 

*' I believe it ! Here I've been 

Croaking, croaking, croaking at your chamber door, 

Like a too, too Poe-tical raven evermore, 
Till I'm ready to denounce the world in general. 

And you in particular, an awful Bore," 

chanted Joe, dismally. Then, suddenly bursting into 
vigorous matter-of-fact prose, he exclaimed : " I say, 
it's downright mean of you, Gerty. What's the use 
of having a sister that shuts herself up so ? Do 
let a fellow in ! I want to whisper something to you. 
It's a secret really and truly." The door opened 
slowly, Joe entered, and coolly seated himself at 
Gertrude's desk. 

" Halloo ! If she isn't writing poetry, as sure as 
I'm alive ! " 

" Now, Joseph Morse ! " Wrath shone in Gerty's 
eyes, and saucy Joe cried out : 

" Honor bright ! I haven't read a single line. 
Come Gerty, don't you be mean. Do come down, 
like a good sister ; " — kissing her. 

"A sister of Charity, I suppose, to pick out your 
tangles, and make some more flies ! What is the 



GERTY MORSE'S ANSWER. 1 07 

special work you've prepared for me now ? — for I 
know very well you don't coax me with kisses for 
nothing, you saucy boy," said Gertrude laughing. 

"It won't require any particular martyrdom on 
your part," replied Joe dryly, "or at least it wouldn't, 
if you girls ever could appreciate a splendid fellow 
when you happen to see one ! " 

" Poor darling," retorted Gerty soothingly. " Have 
the girls been cross to him ? He shall be appre- 
ciated, so he shall ; " and Gertrude patted Joe's broad 
shoulders with a mocking pity that was as bewitching 
as it was exasperating. Joe received it with scornful 
silence. It was very aggravating to him to be two 
years younger than Gerty, and to have her treat him 
like a boy. She always seemed to forget he was a 
Sophomore now. He had learned, however, that he 
could punish Gerty by keeping still. 

" Well ! " queried Gerty, at last : " If you don't 
want anything, please go, and let me rest in peace." 

" I shall not," replied Joe, emphatically. " Ches- 
ter finds he cannot walk far without getting lame, and 
he won't let me disappoint Tom by breaking up the 
fishing party. Bother those old Rebs. Don't you 
remember how he used to run and leap ? I tell you 
though, to see how jolly he is, in spite of it, makes a 
man with two strong legs feel small," remarked Joe, 
rather inconsequently. Gerty thought she would like 
to give him a hug, but restrained her sisterly admira- 
tion. Joe continued : " I can't expect you to appre- 
ciate him, of course. It takes a man, to do that;" 
rising in the majesty of his seventeen years, and 



io8 GERTY MORSE'S ANSWER. 

walking about the room, with his hands in his 
pockets. 

"I am very sorry your fishing party is spoiled,'' 
said Gerty, "although you hadn't the grace to invite 
me to join you." 

"Oho! Is that it, my lady gay? Well it was a 
shame, but I never thought of it myself. Chester 
did say — wouldn't my sister go ; but I guessed not — 
thought you couldn't walk so far." 

"Very well, I consider this a special punishment 
on you, for your unbrotherly conduct." 

"All right," returned Joe, accepting her views on 
retributive justice with cheerful alacrity, " and now, 
Gerty, do come down and look after Chester until we 
come back." Gerty gave a little shrug. " Have 
Major Chester's endless resources failed him, that he 
is forced to depend upon a girl for amusement 1 " 

" Come, Gerty, do be sensible." Joe's good-natured 
face wore a look of unusual seriousness. " I can't, 
for the life of me, understand why you are so contrary. 
When we were children, you cared ten times more for 
Gilbert than I ever did, and nearly cried your eyes 
out when he went to the war ; and now — you'll scarce- 
ly speak to him, and treat him almost like a stranger. 
I'm sure he was as good as pie to you always, and, just 
the other day, I thought he would have taken my 
head off, because I said I guessed all girls flirted, 
when they had a chance. 'A man,' he replied 
(Major Chester had said 'a boy '), 'with a good sister 
like yours, has no right to speak or think so,' Now 
Gerty come, that's a dear. You know you're the lady 
of the house." 



GERTY MORSE'S ANSWER. 109 

''Joseph, you have conquered — I surrender. Hos- 
pitality is a savage virtue, and as such I admire it, and 
practice it alike on friend and foe. Be easy. I will 
entertain your friend," declared Gerty, dropping her 
grand lady airs as she added, " as soon as I have put 
my things away." 

" Very good ; then I'll have Chester in the summer- 
house on the knoll. I'll be home by five o'clock, 
whether we have any luck or not. So make the most 
of your time, my dear Gerty," remarked Joe wicked- 
1}^, as he swung himself out of the room and down the 
stairs, singing airily : 

" How doth my pretty sister G. 
Improve the shining hour, 
To sing a song in major C. 
Within the garden bower." 

Gertrude's door closed with a bang. " Joe is too 
outrageous," said she, half aloud, as she pressed her 
hands to her flushed cheeks." 

She is a pretty picture as she stands indignant, 
rosy, tremulous, by her open window, with its screen 
of morning-glories. Somebody suggests that writers, 
who assert their heroines to be beautiful, should be 
required to furnish their photographs, for the benefit 
of their readers. For my part, I should not be a bit 
afraid of the public verdict, if I could only show you 
a picture of Gerty, as she was fifteen years ago. But 
the terror of the law is upon me, for I was brought 
up to respect the sentiment expressed in the ancient 
couplet : 

" Whoever takes what i§n't his'n, 
If he's found out, must go to prison." 



no GERTY MORSE'S ANSWER. 

Of course, I should be found out — I always am. 
So I refrain, and the public is thereby the loser, 
and must be content with the following, in white and 
black : 

Her forehead is broad, low and well shaded by 
wavy brown hair, very thick and soft ; which has 
never known neither shall ever know, bang, frizz or 
crimp. Her mouth is generous and sweet, full of 
humor and character. She has a good nose, and a 
lovely chin with a dimple in the centre, which just 
matches the one in her left cheek. But the powerful 
charm of her face is in the eyes, — expressive, elo- 
quent, true eyes ; quick to flash with fun or anger, 
and ready to grow tender and luminous over some 
deed or thought heroic. Tell-tale eyes they are, 
whose honesty is not lessened by the dark lashes, 
which shade while they heighten their beauty. I 
maintain that eyes are generally windows of the 
soul. At least, it was and is so with Gerty's eyes. 
No shallow, petty, selfish soul ever looked through 
such star-lit windows. The eyebrows are the color of 
the hair, well defined — a little too heavy for perfect 
beauty, but all the more in character. 

She is taller than the Venus de Medici, graceful and 
girlish, with head well set, and figure well rounded. 

She can row and ride, make bread and beds, nurse 
the sick, as well as laugh her father's whimsical pa- 
tients into good humor; she can sing like a bird, 
frolic like a kitten, frown like a thundercloud and 
smile like the sunshine. She does much, by her sis- 
terly fondness and frankness, to keep Joe a good boy ; 
she pets her father, and orders the house. The ser- 



GERTY MORSE'S ANSWER. ill 

vants love and obey her, and old Martha is the only 
one who scolds her, yet she treats her like a young 
queen. One more line in the picture, for the sake of 
honesty. O gentle critic, spare her ! Once in a 
while, Joe declares, Gerty lets down her back hair, 
and tries to write poetry. There is a tradition that 
she even went so far as to send, to the Bard's Maga- 
zine, a Scotch poem, which was declined with thanks, 
as being in a foreign dialect. There was, however, 
sweetness mingled with the bitter of this experience. 
The secret had been confided to Joe, in one of his 
college vacations, and they had both agreed that it 
must have been really very good Scotch, quite as 
good as " Auld Lang Syne," or it wouldn't have been 
supposed to be a foreign language. This is the secret 
which hangs like Damocles' sword over Gerty's head, 
for wicked Joe is a born tease, and she never feels 
sure that he will not some time " tell." 

But while I have been drawing Gerty's picture, the 
original has vanished from the room, with her scrap 
book under her arm, and some fleecy knitting-work 
in hand ; and, soon after Joe's departure, she ap- 
peared, serenely sweet and hospitable, within the 
Garden Bower. 

"I think r am very good and forgiving," she said, 
smiling, " to take any notice of you, after you all for- 
sook me in such a shabby fashion this morning, with- 
out even giving me the chance to decline going with 

you." 

"It was certainly very cruel to rob you of your 
natural prerogative, merely on the strength of a fore- 
gone conclusion," said Chester with an answering 



112 GERTY MORSE'S AlVSWER. 

smile ; " however, but for our shameful defection, 
your noble magnanimity would have remained to this 
moment, like America without her Columbus, an un- 
discovered continent," he added with a bow. 

" Thank you," replied Gertrude frigidly ; " if that 
is all your apology, I am afraid you may speedily be 
forced to explore a good-sized continent in the polar 
regions of my nature." 

Chester looked up, with a quizzical smile. It 
seemed so absurd to be making stiff speeches to each 
other. He placed a chair by the table, where Ger- 
trude had seated herself with her work, arranging it 
so that it nearly faced her in comfortable Uted-tete. 
She looked up from her knitting, and met his friendly 
eyes smiling at her. " I've no fancy for Arctic ex- 
plorations; besides, they don't take lame fellows. 
They're only in the way, you know. Don't send me 
off there, please. I won't do so any more." 

"That sounds more penitential," said Gertrude, 
laughino:. " I don't bear anv malice." 

" Then, as a proof of forgiveness, let me watch you 
knit that wonderful gauzy stuff — worsted, is it, or 
yarn ? I used to know how to do plain knitting, but 
I am not very good at fancy stitches," continued he, 
with gravity. 

Gertrude looked up in amazement. There was 
something to her so incongruous in the idea of that 
broad-shouldered, bronzed young man, with his strong, 
shapely hands, doing fancy knitting. "Where under 
the sun ? " exclaimed she, beginning a question more 
emphatic than elegant. "Oh! I beg pardon, I did 
not mean to be inquisitive." 



GERTY MORSE'S ANSWER. 113 

" Nothing you could ask would ever be that. I 
learned to knit in a southern prison, and kept it up 
in the hospital. We had only two knives among 
thirty of us, so we hadn't much opportunity to enjoy 
the Yankee luxury of whittling, even when we could 
find a stick or a bone to work on. Mother has the 
only carvings I made, and she has a piece of my 
knitting, too," said he, smiling as he watched Gerty's 
soft fingers. " It is nothing like this," touching her 
work, a marvel of fleecy rosiness. 

" What is it like, what is it made of? " asked Ger- 
ty, hurriedly. 

" It is made of bits of cord, and is like Mrs. Pene- 
lope's web, in that it has been raveled and re-knit 
about a hundred times. You can't imagine how one 
learns to coin amusement out of such miserable 
trifles. We used to invent puzzles, and work out 
problems with pebbles and sticks — that is, while we 
had brains and energy enough. But, indeed, I didn't 
mean to talk about those times," said he, wondering 
a little at Gerty's silence. "I've been an egotistical 
fool," he exclaimed, catching a glimpse of Gerty's 
face. 

"Oh! no, no!" she said, recovering herself as 
suddenly, with a laugh ; " I'm a terribly weak-minded 
person in certain directions. Some stories and some 
songs always make me behave like a goose. But 
thank you for telling me. Don't you want to copy 
some recipes for me, or read aloud ? " 

"Agreed, one or both. What is this book — an 
album ? " 

" I hate albums," said Gertrude, energetically. 
8 



114 GERTY MORSE'S ANSWER. 

" Then may I inquire what I am to call it, seeing it 
has ' album ' in hieroglyphics on the back ? I took 
it for one." 

"I never noticed that before," said Gerty, peni- 
tently ; " but call it a scrap book, — a sketch book, — 
a cookery book, or all three in one, please, but not 
an album." 

" A wonderful volume ! In the literary line, a 
parallel to the crew of the Nancy Bell," mused Ches- 
ter ; " I'm truly afraid of it." 

" I'd like to have those two recipes copied on that 
page," said she, quietly. "Then, whenever I make a 
* Queen of Puddings ' or a celestial, rosy strawberry 
short-cake — " 

"'When this you see,- remember me,'" quoted 
Chester. 

"Exactly," said Gertrude, lightly. "Will you 
purchase remembrance at such a price ? " 

" I will, if I may do it in pencil." 

"Very well, if you don't care whether it is rubbed 
out or not," said she, quickly. 

" I shall trust to your desire to retain the recipes," 
replied Chester. " Now, while I bend my energies 
to the task, may I beg that you will not' interrupt me 
by any frivolous remarks." 

Gertrude looked up, with a flash of her eyes, half- 
provoked, half-amused. Don't be afraid. On occa- 
sion, a woman is able to keep still. May I ask you, 
dear sir," she added sweetly, "that you will not disturb 
me while I count my stitches ? " Their eyes met with 
laughter ; for a while both heads were bent, and both 
were silent. But Gerty's thoughts were busy. She 



GERTY MORSE'S ANSWER. 115 

wondered if Chester remembered their parting, seven 
years ago, when she, a child of twelve, had clung to 
him, passionately declaring she was sure he would be 
killed, and she didn't want him to go. Then, how 
he had kissed her and quieted her, comforting her 
little heart by asking her to pray God, every night 
and morning, to bless him, and keep him safe and 
bring him home. She remembered how she had 
seen him go off, walking straight and soldierly in his 
uniform, and she hadn't cried a bit, until he was out 
of sight. Oh ! how good and kind Mrs. Gilbert had 
been to Joe and herself in that sorrowful time at 
home, when their own dear mother was taken from 
them. What lovely letters Chester had written to 
her, and how gentle he had been when he came 
to see them, twice during his short leave of absence. 
Then came the news of his promotion for gallant 
conduct, and next the report that Major Chester was 
severely wounded and a prisoner. And when he was 
at last exchanged and came home, Gerty was away 
at school. Last year they had met, and he had 
called her Miss Morse, and said he could scarcely 
hope to be remembered after the chances and 
changes of all these years. " How could he think 
so," cried Gerty's faithful little heart, " when I have 
kept on praying for him every night and morning, 
never forgetting him anymore than papa or Joe!" 
It was strange, Gerty thought, to have such a gulf 
between them, now that she was grown up ; but, 
somehow, to-day she didn't feel shy with him, — only, 
as she sat there counting her stitches, she wondered 
whether Major Gilbert remembered how good he had 



Ii6 GERTY MORSE'S ANSWER. 

been to a little girl, seven years ago. She never 
dreamed that the sight of her young beauty, the sense 
of her unconscious loveliness smote Chester Gilbert 
with a pain, which grew the keener as he told himself, 
again and again, what folly it was for him, a maimed 
fellow nearly thirty years old, to hope to win her. 

Suddenly, she came back to the present, and be- 
came aware that her companion was looking up from 
his paper too frequently for a successful copyist. 
She dropped her work, and watched him intently. 
"Treason, treason!" she exclaimed. 

Chester looked up, merrily finishing the quotation : 
"If this be treason, make the most of it." He laid 
the book on Gertrude's lap. Her cheeks flushed, as 
she looked at the sketch he had made, of a child 
with upraised arms and sorrowful, lovely face. 

" I don't see how you could," said she, in confu- 
sion at the unexpected answer to her thoughts. 

" I have a pretty good memory for faces, and then 
I had the original before me, you know. Here are 
your recipes, too, on this other page." 

" Thank you, ever so much," replied Gerty, gently. 

Chester turned the pages of the scrap book with 
some curiosity. " A queer medley," he thought to 
himself ;— " The Song of the Camp," " The Wind and 
the Moon," "Blackberry Jam," "To a Skylark," 
"Jock o' Hazeldean," "Soft Gingerbread," "Maud 
Muller," "Sweet Pickles," "Beyond," "The Mar- 
seillaise," etc. " Shall I read something aloud 1 " 

"Yes, please," replied Gerty, with inward trepida- 
tion, but external calm. 

" Here is something Scotchy, if you won't criticise 



GERTY MORSE'S AA'SWEK, 117 

my Gaelic too severely. It is half as hard to read as 
Burns, though ; " and Chester began to read, while 
Gerty listened, with her head bent over her pretty 
work, apparently deeply interested in the intricate 
border. 

" What a dear, wilful, little lassie, and what a 
charming experience," commented Chester. 

"Very improper," answered Gerty. 

" I wonder if such an experience would be possible, 
outside of Scotland, or whether it is strictly a Scotch 
article." 

"Indigenous to the soil, like blue-bells and gorse, 
not known to flourish elsewhere," declared Gerty, 
positively. 

" Ah ! but there you are wrong, for I have found both 
gorse and blue-bells on this side of the water, but 
never a Jeanie, Do you think there is any chance 
of finding one ? " 

"I cannot say. You had better take the next 
steamer for Scotland," advised Gerty stiffly ; " Ameri- 
can girls don't usually behave in that fashion." 

"You mean," said Chester, slowly, "that a fellow, 
scarred and disfigured as Allen was, wouldn't have 
any chance, — that naturally he would be only pitied, 
or worse, be scorned, by a bright, fair American girl." 

"Oh! no, I didn't mean that, at all," exclaimed 
Gerty with an eager protest in her lovely eyes. ''' It 
must have been Allen himself that Jeanie cared for — 
probably" — replied she, now too interested to be 
coherent. 

"Yes, of course," said Chester, quickly, "only an 
Allen Graeme could win a Jeanie." 



ii8 GERTY MORSE'S ANSWER. 

Gerty was silent. She wished her cheeks would 
not burn so. What did it matter? She wondered if 
she had said anything dreadful. Anyhow, it wasn't 
fair to think Scotch lassies so much nicer than 
American girls. 

" Do you remember The Initials," inquired Ches- 
ter, suddenly. " Whose 1 " replied Gerty, surprised. 
"Mine, for instance," said Chester, mischievously 
bending toward her with a monogram he had just 
drawn in her book. 

" Oh ! said Gertrude hastily. " How stupid of 
me ! Yon mean that German story. Baroness 
Tautphoeus wrote it, didn't she?" 

"Very possibly — I cannot say. Did she write 
Allen Graeme too ?" 

"Very possibly — I cannot sa}'," echoed Gertrude, 
saucily, yet with a growing conviction that either Joe 
had " told," or Chester had guessed her secret, and 
was merely teasing her. 

"Well," resumed Chester judicially, "I don't 
believe any German woman ever wrote that Scotch 
piece ; now do you ? " — appealingly. 

"Why should any one have written it ? " answered 
Gertrude, parrying the question, with a despairing 
clutch at her vanishing courage. 

" Why, indeed," repeated Chester. " If it is a 
conundrum, I give it up, only I'm glad somebody did 
write it." 

There was a moment's silence, like the lull before 
the breaking of a storm. Then poor Gertrude, driven 
to desperation, rose hastily, saying : " Please excuse 
me, I must see about lunch." In her haste to escape, 



GERTY MORSE'S ANSWER. 1 19 

her fleecy knitting caught on Chester's rustic chair. 
Her fingers trembled so, she could not loosen it. 

" Oh ! let me undo it," begged he. Gerty sat 
down. She could not stand, and she could not 
loosen the tangle of her thoughts. " Poor child," 
said Chester, gently. The words were trivial, but 
the tone was a caress. Gerty's last fortress was 
destroyed — the tears rushed to her eyes. She wished 
she were a little child again, to be petted and com- 
forted. Mortified, perplexed, indignant — a rush of 
contending emotions overpowered her. She hid her 
face in her arms on the table. 

"Forgive me, Gerty — it was mean, I know, to 
tease you so," said Chester, penitently. 

"No I won't," replied Gertrude, suddenly recover- 
ing herself, and asked, with a nervous little laugh, 
"What for?'' 

"For making such a blundering Rory O'More, 
said Chester, playfully. 

Gertrude felt a wild impulse to escape. What if 
joe should come along? Suddenly, Chester spoke 
again — his voice was tremulous with suppressed 
feeling. 

" Gerty, I must speak. Forgive me if it is ungen- 
erous — won't you let me see your face — if I ought to 
be silent. I cannot tell you, and you could never 
guess, what the thought of you has been to me all 
these years. Do you thing I have ever forgotten 
how you clung to me, a dear little child, seven years 
ago ? I don't know when I began to cherish the 
hope, Gerty, that, some day, I might win that little 
child, grown to womanhood, to be the light of my 



I20 GERTY MORSE'S ANSWER. 

home-my wife. But, O Gerty, God knows how 
hard it was to come back, maimed for life, even if it 
was for our country's sake, to see you in your girlish 
beauty and loveliness,— to realize what utter folly it 
would be to think of your ever caring for a maimed 
fellow like me ! " 

"O Chester, Chester, how dare you say so?" 
Gertrude's face was suddenly lifted. In her eloquent 
eyes, he read the story of her faithful heart. Gaining 
courage, she tells him he is far dearer for all he has 
suffered— for being wounded for his country's sake— 
that he is, indeed, her hero,— a thousand times better 
and dearer than Allen Graeme. 

"And are you sure, Gerty, it is not pity for me— 
it is not because the Rebs nearly finished me .? " said 
Chester, earnestly. 

"And are you quite sure," answered she, with a 
happy laugh, "that it is not just because I wrote 
about Allen and Jeanie .? " 

" But, indeed," declared Chester, " if you had not 
been so much more of a woman than an angel,— if 
you had not been so sweet and so savage— I don't 
believe I should ever have dared to tell you." 

A certain rosy shawl is treasured, to this day, by 
romantic Gerty, in memory of a June morning, fifteen 
years ago. Uncle Joe declares that Chester and 
Gerty owe all their happiness to him, and occasion- 
ally hums the identical refrain which once excited 
his sister's ire; while he threatens, by-and-by, to give 
Gertrude, Junior, an embellished account, full and 
entire, of the true and interesting story of the Garden 
Bower. 



SOUTHERN VIOLETS. 121 



SOUTHERN VIOLETS. 



To-day I came across some faded violets, plucked 
and pressed long ago. A line inclosing them is 
marked: "Little Phil., April i8th, Aiken, S. C." 

How vividly the faint, lingering perfume brings 
back that far-away, balmy April day — the long, quiet 
walk through the pines, the delicious aromatic air, 
and the hushed tones of the children, as we followed 
to his long home the silent form of bright, beautiful 
little Phil. 

" Violets crushed — the sweetest showers 
Will ne'er make bloom again." 

Something of the pathos and tenderness of the old 
couplet springs up in my heart, with the memory of 
that day. Will you think it strange when I tell you 
that little Phil was only " Lucy's boy " — ungainly, 
dusky Lucy, who was one of the servants of the house ; 
that he was half-brother to little Maria, a typical 
young Ethiop, and to baby Tim, one of the ugliest 
little pickaninnies you ever saw ? 

Phil's existence was a living protest against the 
" eternal fitness of things " under the peculiar in- 
stitution — a sad memorial of the evils growing out of 
the old relations of master and slave. 

He was a beautiful child, with clear brunette com- 
plexion, and soft, rosy color, glorious dark eyes fringed 



122 SOUTHERN VIOLETS. 

with long, curling lashes, a finely formed head, cov- 
ered with rings of chestnut hair, and such a happy, 
radiant face when he used to run to meet us at the 
gate, clasping our dresses in his gladness and glee. 

His mother had been " toted " down to Georgia 
during the war, and had made her way back to her 
old home as soon as she could, " after freedom . 
came." " My ole fam'ly's all done gone, but 'pears 
mo ' like home here, missy, anyway, than 'twar down 
in Georgia." So she was glad to do some extra work 
in the house, and to receive her pay in the use of a 
little hut in the servants' quarters, and food for her- 
self and her three children. 

Phil was a sort of pet in the family. He had the 
freedom of the old southern house, and used to show 
his bright, laughing face wherever he pleased, in a 
manner not granted to the other children of the ser- 
vants' quarters. Lucy attended to our rooms, and in 
her lazy, thoughtless fashion was accustomed to lock 
her two boys in her little hut, while she came over to 
the big house to do her morning's work. 

I was dressing for church that Sunday morning, 
when I heard a cry and a crash, and saw smoke pour- 
ing out of Lucy's house. We rushed down-stairs and 
over to the '' quarters," just as Uncle Pete came out 
of the door which he had broken down, carrying a 
little burnt figure in his arms, and muttering excitedly : 
" I jes' tole her so, dat ar Lucy ; I tole her t'oder day 
dat she hadn't oughter lock dem ar children inter dat 
house ; dey'd shore 'nuff cotch fire dessels. Oh ! 
t'oder boy ? He's all right, missy. I reckon Phil had 
mighty good sense if he toted dat ar little Tim onter 



SOUTHERN VIOLETS. 123 

de bed 'fo' he sot de brush a-fire a-brushin' up de 
h'arth. Pore little soul, he's had his last day's play 
I reckon — " 

While he was speaking Lucy rushed towards us, 
and in utter silence, except for a moan, she took Phil 
in her arms. 

They cut away the burnt clothing, and wrapt him 
in cotton wool, wet with linseed oil and lime-water; 
but the worst trouble proved to be internal. They 
said he must have drawn the flame into his lungs. 
He was very patient, and let us do all we could, and 
looked up with a shadow of his old sweet smile, when 
we called him by his name, and with a look that was 
pitiful in its gratefulness when we held water to his 
parched lips. His only cr}^, all through those suffer- 
ing hours, was, " water, please." It seemed strange 
that there was so little trace of fire about his head 
and face. Some of his brown curls were singed, but 
his face wore its old beauty, almost unmarred. The 
doctor came after a while, but said, carelessly : 
"There's nothing to be done but to give him an ano- 
dyne. He may live a few hours at most." 

I could not help feeling that, to the refined South- 
ern aristocrat, the life of a poor little mulatto boy 
was of small account, though professional instinct and 
natural kind-heartedness led him to desire to lessen 
pain as much as possible. 

Phil lingered until sunset, and then the loving, 
grateful spirit escaped from the little suffering body. 
The next afternoon they buried him. There was no 
occasion for ceremony, and all the arrangements 
were of the simplest description. The ladies of the 



124 SOUTHERN VIOLETS. 

house where we were stopping had been very kind to 
Lucy and her boy, but now there was nothing more to 
be done. 

A small pine coffin was provided by the Freed- 
men's Bureau, and the sister of one of the officers of 
the garrison brought a pretty white dress which cov- 
ered the poor burnt little shoulders and arms, and the 
children laid flowers about the pillow where rested 
the curly head. The coffin was closed and lifted 
into an old farm wagon. Lucy clambered in and sat 
down beside it, while Uncle Pete (Methodist preacher, 
sexton and general factotum) drove the old army 
mule through the woods. Three or four of Lucy's 
fellow-servants followed, while Miss Helen walked 
with us and the children, through the pine plantation 
to the place where the little grave was made. Then 
a strange thing happened. Uncle Pete jumped out, 
Lucy followed, and the old man, taking the little 
coffin in his arms, stepped down into the shallow 
grave. Resting the coffin across one end of the 
grave, and baring his gray head, he lifted his face to- 
wards the sky and began to pray. Such a prayer, so 
homely yet so reverent, full of quaint pleading and 
pathos, human nature and grace ! I wish I could re- 
member it all as he uttered it. 

'"O dear, bressed Lord," he said, "you knows 
all "bout dis ere 'fiiction. You knows mo'n we do, 
fo' you wos dere, an' seed pore little Phil cotch afire 
'fore even us knowed 'bout it. O bressed Lord 
Jesus, we's shore you's mighty sorry for dis ere poor 
Lucy. You knows jes' how awful bad she do feel 
dat she war so keerless an' disrememberful. Out ob 



SOUTHERN VIOLETS. 125 

dhy bressed heart o' lub, O heab'nly Father, talk to 
her an' comfort her. An' make all of us dhy servants 
an' handmaidens, mighty keerful an' rememberful ob 
de word wot sez, shore 'miff, 'De Lord cometh as a 
t'ief in de night.' * * * O Lord, you knows we's 
pore ignorant creturs. We habn't any book larnin', 
an' we'se too ole an' slow to larn now. But we want 
to know mo' 'bout de lub thou hast in dhy heart for 
us. Come, bressed Spirit ob de Holy Ghost, an' 
teach our hearts 'bout de Lord Jesus. We knows 
he's mighty fond ob de little chillen, 'cos he did say 
it was not de will of his heab'nly Father dat 07ie ob 
dese little ones should perish. 

" O dear Lord Jesus Christ, you does know dis 
ere chile wos a little one, an' he had de spirit ob a 
little humble chile, an' we do shorely hope he's a little 
lamb in dhy bosom now." 

Then followed a wild, strange melody — half chant, 
half refrain : 

"An' we'll soon go home thro' de beautiful pearly gates, 

To de glory, de glory eberlastin'. 
** We'll hab palms in our han's, an' beautiful white robes 

In de glory, de glory eberlastin'. 
*' We'll be white as driven snow, thro' de blood ob de Lamb, 

In de glory, de glory eberlastin'. 

For Christ's sake. Amen." 
*'Then lowering the little coffin into the grave, he 
clambered out himself, and taking a handful of earth 
he bent over and flung it in, with the old remembered 
words, " Ashes to ashes ; dust to dust ! " Again 
raising his head, he prayed : " Our Father which art 
in heaben, here we lays dis pore burnt body ob little 



126 SOUTHERN VIOLETS. 

Phil. O Lord Jesus, don t forget him in the mornin' 
ob de resurrectio7i /" 

With a sudden change of manner, he turned to- 
wards us and said : " De services is now concluded. 
We'se much obliged to all de fren's for comin' here 
to day. Now I'se jes' a-gwine to fill up dis ere little 
grave an' den go home." 

So there, under the shadow of the pines, in sum- 
mer sunshine and winter snows, rests all that was 
earthly of loving little Phil. Gladly our hearts echo 
the confident hope of old Uncle Pete that the soul of 
this "little one," saved by the dying of the Lord 
Jesus, is happy forever with the Shepherd of Israel, 
who "gathers the lambs with his arm, and carries 
them in his bosom." 



THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 127 



THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 



" Until the bruising flails of God's corrections 
Have threshed out of us all our vain affections : 
Till those corruptions which do misbecome us 
Are by thy sacred Spirit winnowed from us ; 
Until from us the straw of worldly treasures, — 
Till all the dusty chaff of' empty pleasures ; 
Yea, till his flail upon us he doth lay 
To thresh the husk of this our flesh away, 
And leave the soul uncovered : nay, yet more, 
Till God shall make our very spirit poor, 
We shall not up to highest wealth aspire, 
But then we shall ; and that is my desire." 

— \^From " Tribtilation^' an old English poem ^ 

One beautiful afternoon in the spring of 1858, I 
claimed the promise of a friend to take me to see 
Mrs. E., a sick stranger in the neighborhood, in whom 
my friend was much interested. 

In a cheerful tone of voice we were invited to 
come in. On a lounge drawn near the fire lay the 
patient sufferer. She welcomed us cordially j indeed, 
the warm grasp of the wasted hand would alone have 
spoken for her. 

She was very thin and white, and her dark blue 
eyes and the rings of flaxen hair escaping from her 
muslin cap, made the peculiar delicacy of her com- 
plexion the more striking. 

To our inquiries after her health she replied cheer- 



128 THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 

fully, though when questioned as to whether she suf- 
fered much, she said she was never entirely free from 
pain, but added : " If I can get a bit ease like the 
noo', I've great cause to be thankfu'." 

She spoke with a decidedly Scotch accent, but not 
in what we call " broad Scotch ; " and her language, 
always simple and appropriate, was clearly expressive 
-of her thoughts and feelings. 

The previous year she had sprained her left knee, 
and an abscess having formed on it, her sufferings 
had been greatly increased since her removal to 

C . When we saw her she was unable to walk, 

except a little, around the room and out to the porch 
with the aid of a crutch. Our conversation naturally 
turned from her to her native country, and she talked 
very pleasantly of famous "men and things" of 
Scotland. When we arose to go, after a half-hour's 
chat with her, she thanked us warmly for the visit, 
and said she was so glad to have anyone come in 
and see her, that I felt it a severe, though uninten- 
tional, reproach for never having called there before. 

A brief outline of Mrs. E.'s life, up to the time I 
knew her, may not be out of place here, although 
many of the facts have been gathered since her 
death. 

M. C. F. was born in the village of Scone, Perth- 
shire, a place famed in the history of Scotland, for 
the coronation of her kings. 

She was one of seven children. This wee "lassie 
wi' the lint-white locks," in form so slight and fragile, 
that one might have thought the first rude blast of 
life would lay her in the grave, had lived to see the 



THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 129 

Strong and hearty fail, and to feel slipping from her 
earthly grasp, link after link of the cherished house- 
hold chain. 

These seven children were early left orphans, but 
He, who "tempers the wind to the shorn lamb," did 
not forsake those whom He had bereft of dearest 
earthly friends, and clearly verified His promise : 
^' Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them 
alive." 

A kind uncle and aunt took M. after her father's 
death, to live with them in Edinburgh. Naturally of 
a warm, affectionate disposition, and possessing a rare 
cheerfulness of spirit, no doubt the little orphan niece 
soon became very dear to her kind. Christian friends. 
She remained with them in Edinburgh, and received 
her education there. Owing doubtless, under God's 
blessing, to their excellent counsels and example, she 
became " wise unto salvation," learning of Him who 
was meek and lowly in heart, and according to His 
promise she found rest unto her soul. At the age of 
nineteen, she united with the Established Church of 
Scotland, under the care of the Reverend John Clark, 
to whom she became much attached, although after 
her marriage she connected herself with St. George's 
Church, as it was nearer her home. A short time 
after she had finished her studies, she lost her excel- 
lent aunt. Her uncle broke up housekeeping and 
sailed for America, intending to send for his niece, 
as soon as he could provide a home for her. Death, 
however, claimed him ere he could fulfil his purpose, 
and the orphan girl was again alone. She soon found 
a kind home, as lady's maid in a gentleman's family 
9 



I30 THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 

in Edinburgh, where she remained until her marriage 
with Mr. E., Nov. 29th, 1843. Eight years afterward, 
they embarked for America, hoping to secure a com- 
petence in the New World, which they should return 
to their native land to enjoy. " Man proposes, God 
disposes." It is truly " not in man to direct his 
steps." How often are we reminded of the pathetic 
words of the weeping prophet: "Weep not for the 
dead, neither bemoan him ; but weep sore for him 
that goeth away ; for he shall return no more nor see 
his native country ! " It is well and mercifully or- 
dered, that God's ways are hidden, for how could we 
part with the light of our eyes and the desire of our 
hearts, and send our dear ones away with a cheerful 
" God speed," if we could see the grave in the far-off 
land to which we are consigning them ? 

At C., not far from Montreal, Mr. E. established 
himself in business ; and their object in crossing the 
Atlantic seemed in a fair way of accomplishment. 
The following year, however, their extensive mills 
were burnt down ; the fire also spread to their dwell- 
ing-house, and they narrowly escaped with their lives. 
Almost all their personal property was destroyed in 
the fire, and they recovered only half the insurance 
on the mills, as one company in which they had in- 
sured unfortunately failed. Leaving Canada, they 
removed to H. in New Jersey, where a similar catas- 
trophe occurred. 

Under all these trying circumstances, Mrs. E. was 
never known to utter a word of impatience or com- 
plaint. Her husband, in speaking of her constant 
trust and cheerfulness, remarked that " nothing of a 



THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 131- 

worldly nature ever seemed in the least to put her 
out." Earthly treasure was as dross to her whose 
treasure was laid up in heaven : firmly believing in 
the promise of her heavenly Father to grant whatever 
was needful, she was not concerned about the riches 
of this world, which " take to themselves wings and 
fly away." 

My first impressions of her were deepened by each 
repeated visit. It was one of my best pleasures to 
spend an hour or two with her, although she always 
seemed to consider it a self-denial and sacrifice of en- 
joyment on the part of those who came to see her, in- 
stead of an unwonted privilege. 

There was something very touching in her self-for- 
getfulness. Her kind sympathy with the joys and 
sorrows of the young, and her appreciation of what- 
ever interested others, contrasted strongly with the 
egotism and selfishness to which human nature is so 
prone under the pressure of long-continued pain. 
Uncomplaining, and grateful for every alleviation of 
her sufferings, she did not seem like one who had not 
known an hour's freedom from pain for many months, 
A little gift of flowers, fruit, or any trifle which we 
often receive with a careless " Thank you," always 
brought from her the expression : " I'm sure you're 
very kind ; aye bringing me some nice thing or ither,'* 
while the grateful eye told how truly the words were, 
the expression of her heart. 

She was quite often alone through the day, as her 
husband was obliged to be absent most of the time ; 
but during the summer, friendly neighbors frequently 
came in to see her. 



132 THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 

She always mentioned these calls as unexpected 
kindness and attention to her. It happened one day 
that she was speaking of this, and added laughingly : 
*' I told Mr. E. the other day I hadna eaten anything 
that was cooked in the house, but a bit of toast or 
such like, for a two months." 

That capriciousness of appetite known to almost 
every invalid, was not wanting in her. Everybody 
knows how much better any little delicacy is relished, 
if sent in to one, than if it is of home production. 

Her peculiar sensitiveness of constitution made 
her feel very keenly every change in the atmosphere. 
Especially during the frequent summer thunder 
showers, she suffered the most exquisite pain. After 
some such occasions she has said : " Oh, I didna 
think last night, that I could live till the morning; 
the pain came sharp, sharp, right through my knee, 
but thank God, I'm far easier now." Never did she 
speak of past sufferings without an expression of 
gratitude for present relief. I remember well, one 
Saturday afternoon, when she seemed to feel quite 
comfortable, I said I wished she could be moved 
down to church the next day. She looked as though 
I had touched a chord which had not yet ceased to 
thrill her, as she expressed her sense of the impossi- 
bility of the thing; adding, that she felt she could 
not stay through the services even if she could bear 
to be carried down. The deprivation of ordinary 
Sabbath privileges was deeply felt by her, especially 
as we were then without a settled minister. Once 
during the previous winter, she had been much de- 
lighted with a visit from a minister — a countryman of 



THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 133 

hers — who spent a Sabbath with us. and she fre- 
quently spoke with much pleasure of his friendly call, 
and his prayer for her before leaving. 

During the summer, she enjoyed several privileges 
of this kind, and her delight in these pastoral visits 
showed how much she had missed and longed for 
them. 

Her sweet sympathy with all in affliction of any 
sort, was a delightful evidence of the Spirit of Christ 
which was in her: she was truly mindful of the 
apostle's injunction to " bear one another's burdens." 
It was noticeable too, how the scriptural promise, 
" Give and it shall be given unto you," was fulfilled 
in her experience. It is seldom, I think, that a com- 
parative stranger, although sick and suffering, wins 
such frequent expressions of interest and sympathy 
as were elicited by Mrs. E. Possibly this might be 
partially due to the charm of a rare heartiness of 
manner and language \ but even those who were per- 
sonally unacquainted with her were in a peculiar de- 
gree interested in her. 

An invalid friend, who was spending some time 
with us, took an especial interest in Mrs. E., as she 
herself was suffering from lameness of a similar char- 
acter. Knowing how small a token of kindness 
would give pleasure to an invalid, she lent her a copy 
of the ^' Words of Jesus." That little book had been 
a comfort to one who had entered the dark valley 
while the sunlight of bright hopes, and the fair flow- 
ers of earthly happiness, and the fond love of a 
mother's heart all sought in vain to draw her back 
from the grave. It also ministered sweet consolation 



134 THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 

to this sufferer in her hours of soUtude and pain. 
She always cherished a most grateful remembrance 
■of this little kindness, and an earnest and affection- 
ate interest in the invalid stranger long after she had 
left us. 

The invalid fully appreciated and enjoyed all that 
was beautiful around her. I have often found her 
lying on her couch, gazing through the open door on 
the dense foliage of the trees, and the wooded hills 
glowing in the rich tints of a summer sunset, with a 
heart overflowing with gratitude to God for thus 
clothing the earth with loveliness. No one could 
fail to notice her acknowledgment of God in every- 
thing, and her unwavering confidence in His promise 
that all things should work together for her good. 
Early in July, the abscess on her knee was opened, 
and she experienced temporary relief, although she 
was much weakened by the discharge. She was still 
able however to go to and from her room, with the 
aid of a chair which she pushed along before her, 
even when too weak to support herself with her 
crutch. She sometimes spoke of the possible neces- 
sity of amputating her limb, and in her weak condi- 
tion she could not but dread it. " But," she added : 
" I think a3^e, when the dreadful pain comes as though 
'twould kill me, I'd be willing to have the poor knee 
ta'en off, if the doctor would say it was best." It 
was an aggravation of her trial that her physician 
repeatedly disappointed her, his professional engage- 
ments being very numerous. Perhaps we cannot 
fully estimate her patient forbearance, while enduring 
such severe pain, and waiting in vain for days and 



THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 135 

weeks, for her physician to bring relief. She fre- 
quently spoke of her failing strength ; and the slight 
cough and pain in the side were symptoms of con- 
sumption with which she had been too familiar in her 
family, to easily mistake. The desire to live for her 
husband's sake, and to do more for God, was not 
extinct, although she did not look forward to recov- 
ery. She sometimes said : " If God would see fit to 
grant me a little ease, I would be too thankful to ask 
anything else." Again she said, in great suffering 
and extreme weakness : " Oh ! if I had my peace to 
make with God, / could not do it now. Often, often, 
I cannot think a single thought, — not e'en to know 
that I have a soul, — for the dreadful pain ; and it's 
often late, late at night, after I get to bed, and a little 
easy, before I can get my thoughts together to pray. 
Then I lie awake, and say over short hymns and 
scripture verses and prayers, and feel so happy and 
peaceful." God's mercy and kindness to her soul 
were truly loving-kindness and tender mercy. He 
granted her sweetest communion with him, and gave 
unto her "songs in the night." Her walk had been 
close with God in her season of health and prosperity, 
and He did not suffer her to doubt his love and faith- 
fulness when his hand was laid heavily upon her. 
She could say with Job: "Wearisome nights are 
appointed unto me," and acquiesce in her heavenly 
Father's will concerning her. She could " take it on 
trust a little while," and believe that "these light 
afiflictions which are but for a moment " would work 
out for her a far more exceeding weight of glory. 
Thus was she enabled to glorify her God in the fires, 



136 THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 

and to give a stronger testimony for Jesus by her 
patient cheerfulness on her couch of pain, than many 
do by a life of active usefulness. 

Her patience was a wonder to many, even to those 
who knew something of the power of God to sustain 
and comfort his weary ones. Once, when she was 
nearly worn out with distress, she said something 
about being " impatient." I could scarcely bear ta 
hear her reproach herself so undeservedly ; and in 
answer to my hasty exclamation, she said very 
sweetly: "Well, we know ifs not in us; we cannot 
do anything of ourselves, but, thank God, we know 
where to look, and he'll give us all the grace and 
patience we need. Thus his grace was made " suffi- 
cient " for her, and his strength was perfected in her 
weakness. 

Often our conversation turned to the " old country," 
and her anecdotes and descriptions of life there were 
very interesting. Now it was the pulpit eloquence 
of Chalmers or Guthrie, or some other of the " Scotch 
worthies;" again, some description of the royal 
family, or a panegyric upon the Queen as a faithful 
and loving mother, and again, some touching story 
of the loved and unfortunate. Many times, when 
listening to such a simple story or heartfelt comment, 
I have felt the force of Shakspeare's saying : " A 
touch of nature makes the whole world akin." One 
cold day in autumn I came in with my hands quite 
chilled \ Mrs. E. would not let me warm them by the 
fire, but held them in her own till they were quite 
warm, saying at the time : " I mind well, my mother 
doing so, when we would come in, wee toddling 



THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 137 

things, from the cold." Who cannot recall such an 
instance of a mother's thoughtful love, though her 
hands may long ago have clasped the " rod and staff," 
in going through the dark valley ? 

About this time Mrs. E. had the comfort of fre- 
quent visits from a minister who was with us for the 
winter, and of whose kindness and sympathy she 
always spoke with deep gratitude — while he felt no 
less thankful for being permitted to witness the won- 
derful example of Christian patience and resignation, 
and to minister to her comfort and peace. The in- 
fluence, she unconsciously exerted over every one 
who was much with her, was cheering and strengthen- 
ing, and the assurance of an interest in her prayers 
was often like the sighing wind, precursor of the 
longed-for rain. Sometimes before leaving home for 
a visit, I have told her of my intention ; and her 
affectionate expressions of sorrow at my leaving, and 
the hope that she might live to see me back, with a 
promise to remember me in her prayers, were very 
touching. After such an absence, her welcome home 
was often the sweetest part of my return ; and the 
assurance that she had missed me, and had been 
" wearying " for me, was a proof of her loving heart 
which attached itself to all around her. 

One day I found her delighted with a visit she had 
received the previous day from our minister, and she 
attempted to give me some idea of a beautiful hymn 
he had repeated to her. From her description I 
thought it might be 

" Ye angels who stand round the throne," 

and her delighted face, as I repeated it, immediately 



138 THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 

showed that I was right. It was ever a favorite of 
hers, and even in her dying hours she remembered 
and loved it. I could not but remark how her 
thoughts seemed ever turning heavenward, and have 
often noticed her quickened interest and emotion 
when we spoke or read of the home to which she 
was hastening. She was indeed " only waiting " for 
the summons, that she might joyfully enter through 
the gates into the city. And as she grew in the like- 
ness of her Master, and "endured as seeing Him who 
is invisible," I was forcibly reminded of the words of 
Isaiah : " Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty ; 
they shall behold the land that is very far off." 
Thanksgiving day her pastor called to see her, and the 
occasion brought from her pleasant reminiscences of 
such days " at home," and the more honored observ- 
ance of them there. When he said, very pleasantly : 
"Well, Mrs. E., every day should be Thanksgiving 
day with us, should it not } " she eagerly assented 
with a look of pleasure at being thus reminded of 
God's daily mercies. Truly it might have been 
written of her : 

*' Thy life rises upward to God every day like a psalm, 

Which the singer sings, sleeping; and waked, would with won- 
dering eyes say — 
I sing not, nay ! how should I sing thus ? I only do pray." 

Her increasing weakness and cough, as the w'inter 
approached, made it evident to us that the time of 
her departure was not far distant. Of this she was 
herself fully aware, and spoke of it without any appre- 
hensions or uneasiness, trusting to Jesus alone to 
bring her safely to her desired haven. Her turns of 



THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. I39 

coughing were quite frequent, especially at night. 
After such an attack, she has said to me : " Ah ! I 
thought, last night, I should never see you again in 
this world." During the absence of a young friend 
to whom she was much attached, she said, " I should 
like, if it be God's will, to live till she comes back," 
and her desire was granted, much to the comfort of 
both. 

One day, early in the winter, Mr. E. met with an 
accident from which he narrowly escaped without 
serious injury. So often does God remind us that, 
strong and vigorous as we may be, yet " there is but 
a step betwixt us and death." Mrs. E.'s gratitude for 
this sparing mercy was deep and heartfelt, but her 
wan face and altered expression showed that the 
shock had been very severe. As the Christmas 
season drew near, there were more frequent tokens of 
the approach of the messenger, and her growing spir- 
ituality and heavenliness were very marked. I told her 
one day of a little motherless baby, for whom her tender 
sympathy had been strongly excited. She said: 
" Oh ! I was thinking of the poor wee thing last night, 
and hoping that his sufferings would soon be over." 
We then spoke of the difficulty of always realizing 
the nearness of eternity, of remembering, as minute 
after minute passes by, that one moment of time will 
bear our unclad souls into the visible presence of 
God. I could not repress the thought, that she with 
whom I was speaking would soon, very soon, be 
sharing the joys of angels and the redeemed, and 
glorifying "Him who sitteth on the great white 



I40 THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 

throne " with a service forever free from sin and im- 
perfection. 

But the wise Lord of the harvest sends not forth 
His reaper until the grain is fully ripe ; then " imme- 
diately He putteth in the sickle," and the precious 
grain is gathered into the garner. 

Christmas day I stopped for a few moments, not 
so much to give the " merry Christmas " wish, as to 
let her know that she was not forgotten. She was 
very cheerful, and entered into the spirit of a Christ- 
mas frolic on the ice which I described to her, and 
seemed to put her own sufferings out of sight lest 
they should lessen the enjoyment of others. Two 
days afterwards, she was much worse, but this attack 
did not last long. When I saw her in the evening, 
she was quite comfortable, and listened with pleas- 
ure to some of Ryle's " Spiritual songs." One of 
these which the minister had repeated to her, was 
the beautiful one .of Carey's— " Nearer Home," 
every line of which seemed to go to her heart : 

" One sweetly solemn thought 
Comes to me, o'er and o'er : 
I'm nearer home to-day, 
Than I have ever been before ; 

" Nearer my Father's house, 

Where the many mansions be, 
Nearer the great white throne, 
Nearer the crystal sea. 

" Nearer the bound of life. 

Where we lay our burdens down, 
Nearer leaving the cross, 
Nearer gaining the crown. 



THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 141 

" But lying darkly between, 

Winding down through the night, 
Is the deep and unknown stream, 
That leads at last to the light. 

" Jesus ! perfect my trust, 

Strengthen the hand of my faith ! 
Let me feel thee near, when I stand 
On the edge of the shore of Death, 

"Feel thee near, when my feet 
Are slipping over the brink, 
For it may be, I'm nearer home, 
Nearer now, than I think." 

From this time, the change in her appearance was 
very perceptible; she grew weaker almost daily, 
although she continued to be brought from her bed- 
room to the sitting-room every morning. 

On New Year's day, she suffered very much, but 
afterward she appeared to rally a little. 

Her appetite for the past month had been very 
feeble,' and her throat was so painful as to make it 
often impossible to swallow anything but liquids. 
Still she showed the same grateful appreciation of 
every little attention, and tried to muster a little 
appetite for whatever was sent to her. 

She spoke quite freely of her approaching depart- 
ure, and with the greatest unconcern as to all earthly 
things. The same thoughtfulness for others which 
had always characterized her was evident now,. in her 
efforts to have all the necessary preparations made 
for her death, so that no one should be inconven- 
ienced on her account. She spoke with wonder of 
those who could feel any concern about their funeral 
arrangements, as if it were little matter to her, how or 



142 THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 

where the poor frail body was laid, feeling assured 
that Jesus would guard the sleeping dust, and raise 
it up at last in glorious immortality. 

As she lay on her couch, weak and suffering, she 
kept beside her two little books — "The Faithful 
Promiser," and " Spiritual Songs,"— which were light 
enough for her to hold without weariness. 

From these she often asked me to read, or to 
repeat some hymn about heaven or the Saviour. 

Although she was so weak, there seemed to be no 
apparent reason why she might not linger on for weeks 
or even months ; indeed, her husband was so little 
prepared for the heavy blow, that he had spoken of 
taking her to Canada as soon as she should be a little 
stronger, and of perhaps returning to Scotland. The 
alteration in her appearance which others noticed, he 
did not perceive, as he was so much with her. 

Thursday after New Year's day, I heard that she 
was not so comfortable ; she had suffered intensely 
the preceding night, and was quite exhausted when 
I saw her, but there was still the cordial welcome, the 
lighting up of the face, and the close grasp of the 
hand. It was the last time I saw her in her old place 
on her couch. The next day was very stormy and 
she was much worse. In the afternoon, however, she 
seemed rather better, and Mr. E. carried her out to 
her lounge. She knew well that her sands of life 
were nearly run, and in the stillness of the winter 
evening she spoke calmly and hopefully of the change 
which awaited her, of death itself as the entrance 
into life. 

Her faith was strong and steadfast in the suffi- 



THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 145 

ciency of the Saviour ; her hope was as " an anchor 
cast within the veil." Those hours must have 
been sorrowfully sweet to both hearts, but to her 
who was nearest the goal, even the grief of severing 
earth's dearest, strongest tie could not cause her 
to linger in the race towards the heavenly crown. 

When she saw that Mr. E. was altogether overcome 
with the thought of her death, she changed the sub- 
ject and did not again allude to it, except, on per- 
ceiving that her fingers were beginning to swell, she 
herself removed her wedding ring and another one 
she wore, and gave them to her husband. 

She did not sleep much during the night, as her 
cough was distressing and she was very restless. 
When I went up to see her Saturday, as I entered 
the room, I was startled to see the lounge pushed 
back and vacant. Mr. E. spared me the question 
which I dared not ask, and took me to her room, 
telling me that there had been a great change in 
Mrs. E. since I had seen her. It was indeed so ; 
the sunken eye and attenuated features bore the seal 
of the destroyer : but by God's mercy, he had not 
been suffered to disturb the peace of her soul, or to 
shut out from her dying eyes the glorious face of 
her Redeemer. Perfectly conscious and composed 
in view of death, she knew she would soon be for- 
ever "where the weary are at rest," in that blissful 
home where " there is no sin, nor sorrow, nor any 
more pain." She recognized me immediately, but it 
was very difficult for her to speak, even in a low 
whisper, as any exertion made her cough painfully. 

I repeated to her part of the fourteenth chapter of 



144 THE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 

John, and her favorite hymn. She was very quiet 
afterward, and lay with her eyes closed for some 
time. 

There was a peacefulness in that chamber of death, 
which stilled every thought of earth ; it seemed as 
though the angels were even then hovering around 
the dying bed, awaiting "the loosing of the silver 
cord," to bear the unfettered spirit to its home on 
high. Oh ! it was a solemn thought that could not 
but rise in my soul : the spirit now imprisoned in 
that frail earthly house shall soon, ah ! soon, " at the 
opening of the prison doors," soar away to the 
regions of endless bliss, and I felt as though I could 
give her joy with all my heart that she was so near 
home. 

Two hours after, at sunset, her earthly sun went 
down forever; but we have the assurance that, in 
the city whither she hath gone, " they have no need 
of the sun, for the glory of God doth lighten it, and 
the Lamb is the light thereof." 

As peacefully as a little child, without a sigh or 
struggle, she fell asleep in her husband's arms ; one 
last look, a mute farewell, and the eyes were veiled 
from earth forever. The fever that burned in her 
feeble frame, and made her long for something which 
could quench her thirst, shall nevermore parch those 
lips. She has drunk deep of the stream which flows 
from the throne of God and of the Lamb, that " pure 
river of life, clear as crystal," and they who drink 
thereof "shall thirst no more." 

Oh ! it is well to go to the river side with the pilgrim 
who is to pass through the flood, and to hear in spirit 



7'HE JOYFUL SUFFERER. 145 

the blessed words : " fear not ; thou art mine ! When 
thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee, 
and through the rivers they shall not overflow thee," 
She has crossed the flood, and entered through 
the gates into the city. May we, too, live as fol- 
lowers of those who " through faith and patience 
inherit the promises ;" and then unto us also shall 
be ministered an abundant entrance into the joy of 
our Lord ! 



J 46 THE STORY OF ADJAI. 



THE STORY OF ADJAI. 



Fifty-seven years ago, in the little African village 
of Oshugun, in the Yoruba country, about a hundred 
miles from the slave coast, lived a heathen boy 
named Adjai. He was eleven years old when we 
first hear of him, living with his father and mother^ 
and two little sisters and one brother. 

For several years a dreadful civil war had been rag- 
ing in Yoruba, stirred up and aided by the slave-hunt- 
ers. The people, whom travelers before that time 
had found remarkably mild and hospitable, had be- 
come savage and eager to sell their fellow-men for 
gold. The country, once so rich and well cultivated, 
was fast becoming desolate, as tribe after tribe, and 
village after village joined in the cruel strife. 

Perhaps you may like to know the origin of this war, 
which had such an influence on the fortunes of the 
boy Adjai. One day, in a village-market, a quarrel 
arose between persons of different tribes about a 
" Cowry's worth of pepper." You will remember 
that a cowry is a small shell, used in parts of India 
and Africa, as a substitute for coins of very low value. 
The savage war which lasted for many years, destroy- 
ing 145 villages, making a wilderness of a once fruit- 
ful country, and throwing thousands of slaves into 
the cruel hands of Portuguese slave-traders, grew out 



THE STORY OF AD/ A/. 147 

of a quarrel in market, the money in question being 
about tlie value of the fiftieth part of one cent. 

To return to Adjai, — one bright morning in 182 1, 
the village of Oshugun was attacked by a neighboring 
tribe. Adjai's father seized his weapons and rushed 
out to meet the assailants, and was killed. The vil- 
lage was burned, and Adjai's mother and children 
were taken prisoners. Adjai and one of his sisters 
fell to the share of the principal chief. Before sun- 
set the boy was bartered away for a horse, but being 
exchanged again, he was for a while near his mother 
and sisters, though they were owned by different 
masters. After a few months a Mohammedan 
woman bought the boy. He was in daily terror of 
being sold to the Portuguese slave-traders, and, to 
avoid this fate, he tried to strangle himself with his 
belt. His mistress, seeing him beginning to lose 
his health and strength, sold him for a little rum 
and tobacco. His new owner took him to the Portu- 
guese settlement at Lagos, to be sold with a number 
of other poor captives. They were treated with the 
utmost cruelty, being dragged about, by means of a 
chain passed through iron fetters around their necks. 
After months of misery, on a dark night, the whole 
gang now numbering one hundred and eighty-five, 
were hauled down to the beach, and stowed away in 
the hold of a slave ship, where, in sickness and hunger 
they passed the next day and night. 

But although they did not dream of it, deliverance 
was near at hand. On the second day, the slaver 
was overhauled by a British cruiser, and the res- 
cued slaves were carried to Sierra Leone. On reach- 



148 THE STORY OF AD/ A I. 

ing Freetown, Adjai, with a little girl named Asano 
and several other children, was placed in the mission 
school, under the kind care of Mr. and Mrs. Weeks. 

From the outset, Adjai showed unusual ability and 
eagerness to learn. Not content with the two hours 
of daily instruction in school, he managed to get an 
alphabet card, and persuaded another child to teach 
him his letters, which he mastered in three days. In 
six months he was able to read the New Testament. 
When he was fifteen years old he was baptized, and 
received, in addition to his own name, the name of a 
vicar of a London church who was a well-known friend 
of African missions. After this time, we shall know 
him as Samuel Adjai Crowther. His consistent 
Christian character and intelligence gave great hopes 
of growing usefulness. He was the first student of 
the Fourth-Bay Institution, an establishment for the 
training of natives for the ministry. In 1829, he 
married Asano, his little companion on the slave 
ship and in the mission school. For several years, 
he was the school-master at Regent's Town, under 
the superintendence of his old teacher Mr. Weeks. 

In 1841, Samuel Crowther was appointed to accom- 
pany an expedition, sent by the British Government 
to explore the lower course of the Niger, with a 
special view to the suppression of the slave-trade. 
Nearly all the Europeans died from the effect of the 
climate, but we cannot call the expedition a failure, 
since it opened to Mr. Crowther the region which he 
resolved to make the place of his future labors. 

During all these long years, no word had reached 
him of his mother or family, though we can well 



THE STORY OF ADJAI. I49 

believe that he must often have anxiously asked for 
tidings of them, from the thousands of Yoruba people 
brought by British ships into the, colony of Sierra 
Leone. We are told he never ceased to pray for his 
mother, though not knowing whether she still lived. 
After completing his studies at Islington, where he 
had been sent by the Church Missionary Society, he 
was ordained by the Bishop of London, as Mission- 
ary to Abbeokuta, a city in the Yoruba country. Mr. 
Crowther returned to Africa, sailing with his wife 
Asano, and some other missionaries, in December 
1844, for Badagry, the nearest port by which they 
could reach the Yoruba country. They were detained 
some eighteen months at Badagry, but lost no time 
while there. Mr. Crowther preached under the shade 
of a huge tree to the mixed population who came to 
hear the gospel from the lips of one of their own 
African people. While still at his work at Badagry, 
he was told one day, that, among a gang of slaves 
from the interior, was a man said to be Samuel 
Crowther's uncle. The news was true. The old man 
was ransomed for ten pounds, five shillings. From 
him Mr. Crowther learned that his mother still lived, 
not far from Abbeokuta, the mission station to which 
he was going. He therefore sent a messenger to tell 
his mother. She could not believe the message, but 
notwithstanding, she hurried to meet him, and when 
she saw him, although twenty-five years had gone 
by, she knew him to be indeed her long lost Adjai. 
From the lips of her own son, so wonderfully re- 
stored to her in her old age, Afala heard the glad 
tidings of the Saviour, salvation from sin, and eternal 



ISO THE STORY OF AD J Ah 

life. Among the first fruits of Samuel Crowther's 
ministr3Mn the Yoruba country, was his own mother. 
Soon after this, his brother, two sisters and four 
children were brought to the station as slaves. He 
ransomed them all for one hundred dollars, so low an 
estimate is put upon human flesh and blood in that 
region. 

The work continued to gain ground steadily in Ab- 
beokuta, and the neighboring towns. We can believe 
there was plenty to do, when we learn that, in 1861, 
Burton estimated the population within the wall of the 
town at 150,000 ; and outside 50,000 more. At that 
date, there were in Abbeokuta 1,500 Christians ; the 
rest were pagans whose religion was fetichism. The 
pagan priests opposed the missionaries, and with the 
slave-traders persecuted the native Christians, but 
failed to shake them from their faithfulness in the 
midst of dangers, and at the peril of their lives. 

We have not time to give, in detail, the work Mr. 
Crowther accomplished during his missionary labors, 
of nearly twenty years, among his own Yoruba peo- 
ple, and on the Niger. He had translated a large 
part of the Bible and Prayer Book into several native 
languages, and had made four separate missionary 
tours up the Niger, establishing stations and laying the 
foundation of new missions on every tour. None 
but a native missionary could do the work, for the 
climate was fatal to Europeans. In 1864, he was 
called to England, to receive ordination, as Bishop of 
the Niger. No man could have received a nobler 
welcome than was given to him in England. The 
Queen gave a special interview to him and his wife 



THE STORY OF ADJAI. 15^ 

Asano, and the University of Oxford conferred the 
degree of Doctor of Divinity upon him. On the 29th 
of June, 1864, the little slave boy and girl of forty 
years before, stood side by side, in the great Cathe- 
dral of Canterbury, while Samuel Adjai Crowther was 
consecrated first negro Bishop of the Niger. 

He sailed straightway after his ordination, and re- 
turned to Sierra Leone, where another welcome 
awaited him. In a fortnight, he was once more at 
Lagos, where so many years before he, in despair and 
agony, had been dragged through the streets. 

By strange ways God had led him, but, as Joseph 
said to his brethren, so Crowther could say to his 
cruel captors : "Ye thought evil against me but God 
meant it for good, to save much people alive." 

The miserable little Yoruba boy, torn from his 
home and sold as a slave to go into a far country, 
was brought after many years to high honor, and to 
stand before a greater than any earthly king, and to 
receive from Him the best blessedness of life, useful 
service to his suffering, ignorant fellow-men. * * 
******* 



152 ANDREAS HLAVERTI. 



ANDREAS HLAVERTI. 



An outlandish name, you say. So it is ; for it is 
the name of one from far-off Hungary, who seems to 
have been sent to these western shores, just to receive 
a little gleam of light from Heaven, to learn the truth 
about Jesus and His salvation, so that he might carry 
back that blessing to those still in darkness, in his 
own native land. Last Sabbath, he was with the lit- 
tle flock that assembled to listen to a Bible lesson 
from our pastor and a Hungarian assistant. To- 
day, he is out on the broad ocean, but, as he said be- 
fore he left, " I go home to my country, but I go 
praying God to bless this work that Christian people 
do here for my people. I read in my testament, 
Jesus Christ said : ' I am the light of the world, but 
men love darkness rather than light because they do 
evil ; ' that is the way with my people, but they do 
not know the Bible — I never heard the Bible in my 
country. — I pray God to take away the dark out of 
their hearts, and the anger and the hate, and make 
them want to know good, and love Jesus Christ. So, 
the Christian people must not be afraid. God will 
take care, and He can do what He pleases." 

One afternoon, entering the Bible-class room some 
time before the hour of service, he passed through to 
a smaller room, where some maps were hung on the 



ANDREAS HLAVERTF. 153 

wall. While he was examining them, two men enter- 
ed — one of them evidently under the influence of 
liquor. — " What are you doing here ? " they inquired 
roughly. "Oh! nothing," he answered. "Yes, but 
what are you doing ? " ''I look to see where is the 
city, Jerusalem, where Jesus Christ was crucified." 
"You come here to Church — this is no place for you 
— you are a Roman Catholic." " Well, here I can 
worship God. For Roman Catholic, Greek Church 
or Protestant, there is one God. This is a God-House, 
and here I learn only what is good — so I come." 

He walked out of the house, and they followed, 
evidently abusing him. " You're Roman. Catholic — 
you must not come here again — you must go to 
Roman Catholic Church." 

" Why not ? Y021 have been here once — twice ; 
you know what they teach here. You hear nothing 
but good words about God, out of his Book — no swear- 
ing words, no ugly words, about Roman Catholics or 
anybody — only that God is ready to have all men 
come to him, and He save them. What harm is 
there to hear that — for Roman Catholic or Greek or 
any one ? " 

They became violent, and threatened him — said he 
should be stopped — they would waylay him every 
time he tried to come. " This is America. I shall 
come where I hear only good things." Then they 
taunted him with forsaking the Church, called him a 
bad Catholic, and cursed him. He answered : " You 
talk about Roman Catholic Church. I think you like 
' Dick's church' better than Roman Catholic Church. 
[Dick kept a beer-shop, much frequented by their 



154 ANDREAS HL AVERT/. 

countrymen.] You go to mass one hour, — then you 
come out and go to Dick's two or three hours, and 
get drunk. Is that good ? No ! You say if you're 
Roman Catholics you're safe. If a man gets drunk 
and fights and swears, and has one wife in Hungary, 
and comes over to America and has another wife here 
— all right, if he's a Roman Catholic. God will save 
him, no matter how bad he is.'' 

This was plain truth, and hit a sore spot, for a 
brother of one of the assailants answered fully to 
this description of a good Roman Catholic. The men 
then became so abusive that Hlaverti feared they 
-would waylay and murder him, as they threatened to 
do. So, leaving them, he turned into the house 
where the Hungarian assistant lived, and reported to 
him the conversation. The latter advised him to 
keep quiet — to remain at his house for a while, and 
not go to Bible-class that afternoon. Hlaverti fol- 
lowed this counsel, but was present at the evening 
service in the Presbyterian Church ; and he contin- 
ued to attend quite regularly, although his knowledge 
of English was of the slightest. 

Before one Communion season, he told the Hun- 
garian Bible-reader that he would like to come to the 
Lord's Supper, if the Christian people would let him 
— to mass he could not go. It was strange that he 
learned so much truth with so little of human teaching. 
Rugged old man, that he was, he had the humble 
spirit of a little child — a true disciple of Him who 
was meek and lowly, eagerly seizing upon the Scrip- 
ture doctrines, as shown by verses of the Bible, print- 



ANDREAS HLAVERTI. 155 

ed on the blackboard Sabbath after Sabbath, in 
Hungarian, Bohemian and English. 

He was very helpful to his fellow-learners, and en- 
couraging to his teachers. Such verses as these were 
carefully read over, in the different languages, the 
translations compared, so as to teach the foreigners a 
little English on the way, and then explained as fully 
and plainly as possible. 

These are some of the verses : " This is a faithful 
saying," etc. "Jesus Christ came into the world to 
save sinners;" "God so loved the world," etc.; "It 
is appointed unto all men to die, and after death the 
judgment;" "God will bring every secret thing in- 
to judgment," etc.; " Then shall the King say unto 
those on His right hand : ' Come ye blessed ; ' " "I 
am the Good Shepherd ; " " And other sheep I have, 
which are not of this fold ; them, also, I must bring." 

If we can, by an effort, empty our minds and mem- 
ories of these Scripture words, standing for the whole 
doctrine of man's sin and Christ's atonement, we 
may perhaps appreciate, a little, the eagerness and 
gladness with which this simple-hearted man received 
the good news of a Saviour for hvn. To him, the 
story of His birth in Bethlehem of Judea — the years 
of His life on earth — His pity and help and healing 
— His agony in the Garden — His betrayal by one 
follower — His denial by another — abandonment by 
all — the death on Calvary — came with the freshness 
of truth told to a little child, and the preciousness of 
a cooling draught to a thirsty and waiting soul. * 



156 A MORNING 



A MORNING IN THE HOMES OF CHINA 
TOWN. 



In the heart of the city of San Francisco, only a 
few stones' throw from large hotels and stores, lies 
" China Town," where you may walk apparently in a 
foreign land, and very rarely meet any but long- 
queued little figures, with dark blouses and slippered 
feet. Parts of Sacramento, Dupont, and Kearney 
streets are included in China Town. " Barbary 
Coast," the significant name of a small portion of 
the Chinese Quarter, is not a safe place to visit, ex- 
cept under the escort of a policeman. It is a den of 
thieves and roughs. 

By the kind invitation of one of our missionary 
ladies in San Francisco, one October morning six 
years ago, I started with her to visit the Chinese 
Quarter. " As your time is so limited," she said, " I 
will try to give you a glimpse, at least, of the different 
grades and classes of homes. I generally go with 
Ah Ho, our assistant's wife, as I have not yet mas- 
tered enough Chinese for ready conversation. We 
will call on her first, and see whether she is at liberty 
to go with us, this morning." 

On our way, Mrs. C. told me something of the his- 
tory of Ah Ho and her husband Tam Ching. Ah 
Ho was educated in the family of Dr. Happer of 



IN CHINA TOWN. 157 

Canton, China, and, under Mrs. Mapper's care, be- 
came a Christian and married Tam Ching, who had 
been brought up in San Francisco, but studied for 
the ministry in China. " They have a little child, a 
year old, who was baptized a few weeks ago, under 
the name of ' Oi Chan,' which means ' Love the 
True.' " 

We found Mrs. Ah Ho very willing to join us, as 
soon as she could make some necessary arrangements 
about her baby, and change her in-door Chinese dress 
for the ordinary dress of Americans. So we made 
an appointment to meet her at Mrs. Lum Zue's, and 
as we crossed the street, we met Tam Ching going 
home with little Oi Chan, bundled up and asleep in 
his arms. 

''You have just seen a Christian Chinese home," 
said Mrs. C. " Now we will call on a little heathen 
mother, who was born here and understands a good 
deal of English. Her baby is a few weeks old. 
Poor little thing! It does not now seem to have 
much chance of a Christian education, although the 
mother and grandmother come occasionally to the 
* Women's Meetings ' at my house, where I entertain 
them once a month, and they are very friendly and 
cordial to me when I visit them." So, up we went, 
to the third floor of a dark, dull tenement house. 
We were warmly welcomed, and invited into the room 
where the young mother and her baby were sitting 
wrapped up. The baby was fretting like any other 
baby, and the little mother, who looked like a mere 
child herself, petted and soothed him in a very natu- 
ral fashion. Our visit was the occasion for a general 



158 A MORNING 

reception. One woman after another came in, until 
there were seven or eight, besides ourselves, in that 
little room. We are told the standard and type of 
beauty differs materially, among different nations. 
These China women may have been belles in their 
own land, but to my eyes they had been, as our old 
Scotch nurse used to say of herself, " to the hint o' 
the door, when the beauty was given out." Each 
one entered with a short little bow and bob of the 
head, and a variety of renderings of our " How do 
you do," and " Good morning." The mother under- 
stood us pretty well, and answered, in broken Eng- 
lish, Mrs. C.'s questions about herself and baby. 

" Baby month old Sunday. Then he wear his new 
clothes. We have feast. Won't you come t " " Oh ! 
Sunday not good day ? Why not ? " she exclaimed, 
as Mrs. C. thanked her, and said she would like to 
come very much if it were not to be on Sunday. 

" Oh ! oh ! Sunday — your Joss' day ? You go to 
Joss House, Sunday ! " We assented, and the little 
mother then offered to show us the baby's " new 
clothes." While the brisk, proud grandmother went 
to get them, Mrs. C. explained to me that a Chinese 
baby always wears old clothes for four weeks. Then, 
when the family can afford it, it has a complete new 
suit of blouses and caps, generally made and given 
by the baby's grandmother, — a person much more 
universally honored among the Chinese than in our 
American homes. So much is this the case, that the 
living grandmother often becomes an object of wor- 
ship, as well as the more remote ancestors of the 
pious Chinese. This ancestral worship appears so 



IN CHINA TOWN. I59 



inwoven into the Chinese nature, that the renuncia- 
tion of it is often the severest test of their Christi- 
anity; it is the last superstition they give up. I 
could not help thinking how shocked the Christian- 
ized Chinese might well be, if they could see the cool 
indifference towards the "old folks" in many an 
American home— if they could hear boys and girls 
vote their grandfathers and grandmothers "slow," 
and " a horrid nuisance," when their infirmities 
called for some renunciation of pleasure on the young 
folks' part. 

But while I was thinking and comparing morals 
and manners of Young America and Heathen Chinee, 
the grandmother returned with baby's new clothes. 
They were of handsome material and beautifully 
made. The under-sacque was of scarlet flannel, the 
outer, of navy blue serge, lined and wadded, and fin- 
ished with a heavy cord. The street garment was of 
magenta-colored brocade and looked large enough 
for a child three years old. The most singular thing 
about the suit was the pair of caps. They were 
little scarlet skull-caps, very much like those we often 
see on the little monkeys led around by organ grind- 
ers. Each cap had a band of ornaments across the 
front, with medals representing the idol whose care 
was especially invoked. On one was the inscription, 
which Mrs. C. translated for me, " May you be rich ! " 
and on the other, " May you have long life ! " Poor 
little baby! It seemed very sad that those who 
loved him best, could make for him no better, higher 
wishes. 

The women crowded around me, noticing my dress 



i6o A MORNING 

and particularly examining some oxydized buttons on 
it. I thought afterwards they perhaps imagined the 
buttons bore some image or inscription similar to 
those upon the baby's caps. Their questions, in very 
broken English, were quite amusing. Sewing and 
cooking are their only occupations, and their lives are 
utterly void of outside interests or knowledge. I no- 
ticed an extremely dull, heavy-looking woman sitting 
stolidly in the corner. Mrs. C. told me she had been 
bought by a Chinaman last Christmas, and had not 
been allowed to stir out of the house since that time. 
She had not been out of that house for ten months. 
I thought it was no wonder that she complained of 
constant headache. These poor slave wives are in 
the most abject bondage to their husbands. Fancy 
if you can, the life of one of these poor, ignorant 
creatures, in a Christian country, yet living in the 
grossest heathenism, with no hope in this life, nor in 
the life to come. 

I was surprised to see, on the wall, a map of the 
world. We were glad to point out, to the most intel- 
ligent of the women, the places where we came from. 
It was pleasant to notice how their faces brightened, 
as they understood us and asked us questions about 
New York, and tried to say some English words after 
us. 

Most of these women were in the habit of attend- 
ing Mrs. C.'s "Women's Meetings," and she visits 
them in their own homes, and tries to win their love 
and confidence. It is necessary to do a great deal of 
apparently fruitless social work, in order to assure 
them of the true, friendly feeling of our missionaries, 



IN CHINA TOWN. l6l 

for it is a sad and shameful fact that the Chinese have 
been so grossly abused in San Francisco that it is 
little wonder these heathen consider a religion which 
permits such cruelties, to say the least, not very at- 
tractive. We took our leave with a good deal of 
handshaking, and bobbing, and many good-byes, and 
as we left the room, two of the women followed us to 
the head of the stairs, saying very pleasantly, " Walk 
slowly ! " " Walk slowly ! " I fancied they wished to 
warn us of some dangerous place on the stairs, but 
Mrs. C. told me that it was only their pretty, polite 
way of thanking us for the visit, and expressing 
regret at our departure. 

Our next call was at the house of a Christian 
Chinaman, " who bought his wife for $700 here in 
San Francisco," Mrs. C. told me. "He is a mer- 
chant in comfortable circumstances, and is one of 
our most intelligent church members." We were 
received very politely, as he came into the parlor 
through a curtained recess. Mrs. C. said she hoped 
we had not disturbed him. " Oh ! no," said he, " I 
have taken rice." (Which is equivalent to our say- 
ing we have breakfasted.) Soon his wife Lum Zue, 
came in, dressed in ordinary Chinese style, loose 
trousers, and long blouse with large sleeves. She was 
young and pretty, with a soft pleasant voice, and most 
elaborately arranged, shining black hair. The man- 
ners of the Chinese at home are certainly very 
courteous and pleasant. In allusion to the difference 
between Chinese and American styles of dress, our 
host remarked that it was a mistake to say that a 
Chinaman would not be allowed to land in China if 



1 62 A MORNING 

he had cut off his queue, — but,' that if one returned 
to China without it, he would be a laughingstock of 
every one ! "Very much the way," said he, " that it 
was here sixteen years ago, when I came to San 
Francisco. All the boys in the streets yelled and 
hooted at me, because of my queue. The China boys 
would hoot at me there, if I went back without it." 
I told him I had always thought that our fashion 
gave a man much advantage over his wife in the ease 
of dressing, but a Chinaman had as much trouble as 
his wife, with his long hair. " Oh ! no," said he 
laughing, " I brush and braid mine every morning in 
five minutes." His wife said, with a little blush and a 
smile : " It takes me two hours ! " and I could well 
believe it. 

Mrs. Ah Ho, the assistant's wife, soon joined us, 
and, after some pleasant conversation with our host 
about the church and former missionaries, we took 
our leave, he and his wife thanking us politely for 
our call. Then, with Mrs. Ah Ho, we went into some 
of the opium shops. They are not places where one 
would wish to enter alone. 

Our next call was upon a much poorer class of 
women than we had yet seen. Up, up we went to the 
top of a dirty tenement house, past many a door from 
which squalid, dull faces peered out at us strangers, 
until we found ourselves at last, in a large open 
room, on the top of the house. Doors and some 
merely curtained partitions opened upon this hall. A 
group of women sat on the floor, or on low stools, 
sewing on coarse under-clothing, working for a few 
cents a day, from morning till night, day after day, 



liY CHINA TOWN. 163 

and week after week, and month after month. One 
of them " took rice " while we were there, in the most 
hasty, incidental way, disposing of her saucerful by 
means of her chopsticks, in a very few minutes. 
Several children, of different ages and sizes, were lying 
idly around. One little creature, frightened perhaps 
at us, ran to its mother with the familiar cry : " Mam- 
ma, mamma ! " One of the women told us that the 
preceding day had been a feast day, the Chinese 
New Year, as I understood. Before we left, she 
brought out a few cakes which their bakers made for 
the feast, and some of the singular, sheep-head nuts, 
which are great favorites with the Chinese, and offer- 
ed them to us. She seemed very much pleased when 
I told her, through Mrs. Ah Ho, that I should take 
them home with me, and show them to my friends. 
Mrs. C. told me that she had made many efforts to 
get permission from the husbands of these poor 
women, for them to come to the " Women's Meetings " 
at her house. Only a few were permitted to come. 
It takes a long while to break down the strong walls 
of prejudice and national custom which surround 
these poor creatures. 

Before leaving the room where they were work- 
ing, I noticed that one of the curtains was raised, 
and a thin, miserable-looking woman came out, 
with a baby as forlorn as herself, in her arms. Mrs. 
Ah Ho said to me : " That woman bought that baby 
— gave $25 for it." We received no explanation 
— no comment. It was an immense sum for that 
poor woman to accumulate, considering that their 
wages are, at the most, a few cents a day. Poor lit- 



1 64 IN CHINA TOWN. 

tie baby, lowest down in the scale of humanity, of all 
the children we had seen that morning. I could 
scarcely wish that it might live, and yet even such a lit- 
tle waif may, by God's mercy and in His over-ruling 
providence, be as happy and as useful as the little 
baptized " Love the True," the child of many prayers 
in a Christian home. This was our last visit in 
China Town. I thought, as I took the cars for the 
hotel, what a mighty debt we women owe to the Gos- 
pel of Jesus Christ ; for it is that which has given us 
back the place God gave us first in Eden, — a place 
which no heathen nation has ever yet accorded to the 
women of their race. 

Since writing this little history of our visit in China 
Town, I have heard from Mrs. C. that they have de- 
cided to provide a home for Chinese women, where 
they may be rescued from the most disgraceful and 
degrading slavery, and be taught of Christ and his 
salvation. 



THE ACID TEST, 165 



THE ACID TEST. 



We had been looking over some pieces of old 
jewelry at home, and discussing their comparative 
weight and purity. The subject interested me a 
great deal ; so one day, soon after, I took a little 
piece of gold to a jeweler's shop, to be weighed and 
tested. After weighing it, he said : " You would like 
to know its quality, I suppose ? " 

" Yes, please. May I see you test it ? " 

" Oh ! .certainly," he answered pleasantly. " It's no 
secret." 

I had some knowledge of the different processes to 
which gold ore is subjected, but was not prepared for 
anything so simple and suggestive as the jeweler's 
gold test. Perhaps some reader may be as ignorant 
as I was j if so, will you stand by my side, while the 
pleasant boyish-looking jeweler tests my piece of 
gold? 

" I'll compare it with this," he said, taking a ring 
from a case and handing it to me. " That is eighteen 
carats gold, six parts of alloy to eighteen of gold." 
Then he took a small block of stone, smooth and 
dark, and rubbed the ring and my piece of gold upon 
it, leaving two narrow yellow bands side by side on 
the dark surface of the touchstone. 

" Yours is more than eighteen carats fine," he said 



1 66 THE ACID TEST. 

looking at the two bands, which were perceptibly 
different in color. 

" How can you tell how much purer it is ? " I 
asked. 

" I don't know that I can tell very accurately, for 
I don't often have occasion to test gold, and it 
doesn't pay to keep ornamental jewelry of finer qual- 
;ity than eighteen or twenty carats," he said, while he 
carefully examined a box full of rings. 

" I was looking for a twenty-two carat ring which 
we made to order," he said, after a minute, "but it 
must have been called for. Where there's much of 
this testing to be done, they keep little bars of gold 
ranging from fourteen to twenty-four carats fine — you 
know twenty-four is pure gold — and, by comparing 
the streak made by the gold to be tested, with that 
made by the bar nearest it in color, one who has 
much experience can tell pretty accurately how much 
alloy there is with the gold, without the test by acid." 

" What is that ? " said I, growing more and more 
interested, as he took a small vial of colorless liquid, 
and let a drop fall on the two yellow streaks. 

" Aqua fortis." 

*' That is nitric acid, isn't it ? " 

" Yes'm, just the same. The purer the gold, the 
less it will change under the acid. The gold itself is 
not affected, it's only the alloy that changes color 
and is dissolved." I watched the yellow bands : one 
turned to a greenish mottled color, the other seemed 
unchanged. " I must try something better," he said. 
" Your gold is pretty rich. I have a little pure gold 
here ; at least, it was sold to me as such ; I'll test it 



THE ACID TEST. 167 

with that." He broke off a little corner from some 
soft gold leaf, and rubbed it on the touchstone beside 
the yellow band left by my piece of gold. " They 
seem to be just about the same," he said, looking at 
the two bands side by side. 

He poured some acid upon them ; both bands 
dulled a little, but neither of them changed color. 

" Yours is just about pure gold," he said. " There 
may be a little alloy, but I can't detect it. If you 
would like, I'll take it to an assayer's, and let you 
know precisely what its purity is." I thanked him, 
but said I was quite satisfied with his test, and had 
been very much interested. After a little more con- 
versation, I took my piece of gold and came home, 
with a lesson in my heart. 

The thought came to me, how closely the world 
watches while God's children are tried and tested ; 
and what a sure touchstone, dark and hard, this 
mortal life of ours is. Then, too, how truly the 
mark we leave in life is a part of our very selves — 
not a whit more golden and pure can it be, than we 
are in the sight of God. It may look well to our 
eyes, it may even seem fair to others, but God knows 
just what it is. Then how human, how natural it is, 
to compare one Christian with another, instead of 
taking Christ alone as our standard, the pure, un- 
changed, unchangeable gold, tried by the sharpest, 
most fiery tests, and found without alloy. The lam- 
entation came to mind : " How is the gold become 
dim, and the most fine gold changed ! " Ah ! that is 
written of us, not of Him ! God knows we need the 
acid test, lest we should seem to be, and think our- 



1 68 THE ACID TEST. 

selves, other than we are. But it is a comfort to 
know that the acid dims and destroys only the alloy. 
Christ in us, the hope of glory, is untouched, untar- 
nished. We look on, while friend after friend, our 
nearest and dearest, are tested and tried. We suffer 
in their sufferings, for pain is not a whit less truly 
pain because the sufferer belongs to Christ. But we 
need not fear for any of them. Little by little, the 
alloy is dissolved. Under the revelation of so much 
positive sin, as well as of the possibilities of evil in his 
nature, the poor sufferer is bewildered and distressed 
beyond words. He cannot understand how, if he be 
a Christian, he can be so bad, so unlovely, proud or 
mean. He feels he is less than the least of the dis- 
ciples, because he is a disgrace to his Master. By 
and by, the acid test will be over. God will take 
care of that \ but purity is more precious to Him than 
man's praise. 

I thought for how short a moment in the long, long 
summer's day the acid lay upon the gold. " A little 
while ! " Some brave, strong words I had once read 
returned to my mind. " Mortification and anguish, 
that wistful yearning, which, like hope deferred, 
maketh the heart sick, have but their day. Endure 
them, lift them up, and carry them as a daily burden, 
permitted by the Master, though perhaps administered 
by a fellow-servant ; have faith in heaven and earth ; 
and the new dawn will rise sooner or later, which will 
ever brighten into the cloudless morning of eternity." 

Should not this certainty give us courage and hope, 
and make us better comforters than the friends of 
Job, when we must stand by and see others suffer j 



THE ACID TEST. 169 

and whenever the sharp agony appointed for our- 
selves may come, shall we not remember that it is writ- 
ten : " Behold the end of the Lord ; for He is very 
pitiful and of tender mercy." 



lyo CASTING, OR CARRYING? 



CASTING, OR CARRYING? 



In these troublous times, of wars and rumors of 
wars, social wrongs, abounding iniquity, and wide- 
spread distress, many a Christian heart is burdened 
with anxieties real and pressing, whether they be 
narrow or world-wide, in their range. There is but 
one way of relief from care, borne by servant or by 
sovereign, for a child or for a country, whether it has 
come through the weakness of a moment or the 
wickedness of years. No human heart is strong 
enough, no human sympathy is deep enough, no 
human wisdom is wise enough, to carry the burden 
under which some fellow-traveler beside us has fallen 
to the earth, despairing of relief. 

Probably, all of us have frequently noted the linked 
precept and promise in the fifty-fifth Psalm : " Cast 
thy burden upon the Lord and He shall sustain thee, 
and the still more familiar words of the apostle Peter : 
*' Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for 
you." They are echoes of the Saviour's exhortation 
and assurance : " Neither be of doubtful mind (mar- 
gin, ' Neither live in careful suspense'), for your 
heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all 
these things." 

" Beautiful words," we think, with a sigh, " and of 
course they must be true ;" yet we go on groaning 



CASTING, OR CARRYING? 17 1 

under our care, unrested, unhelped. What is the 
trouble ? 

Paul, the aged, when nearing the end of his course, 
tells us : " Be careful for nothing ; but in everything, 
by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let 
your requests be made known unto God. And the 
peace of God which passeth all understanding shall 
keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus." 
Phil, iv: 6, 7. 

These words tell of the unspeakable peace of God, 
garrisoning the saved soul that casts all its care on 
Him who careth for it. If we fail of the blessedness 
of that rest, is it not as with Israel of old, " because 
of unbelief " .? (marginal reading, " disobedience.") 

Those of us who have had loving, wise and faithful 
fathers and mothers may be glad to recall the sense 
of security, the light-heartedness and content, which 
possessed us after confiding our childish troubles or 
desires to those whom we had ever found able and 
willing to help us. We scarcely needed the cheerful 
assurance : " I will endeavor to arrange it, my child," 
or " I will see about it, dear," to send us away happy, 
" nothing doubting." It may well be that, through 
the mist of years, we have lost memory of times when 
even their love and care could not compass the fulfil- 
ment of our desires, or remove the burdens which 
their sympathy lightened, but the hearts of their 
children " safely trusted in them." 

Now, having so undoubtingly confided in our 
earthly parents, is it not strange and sad that we 
should be shy with our heavenly Father ? 

I remember once hearing of an extremely timid 



172 CASTING, OR CARRYING? 

little girl, who we knew had for the first time in her 
life voluntarily asked her father to bring her some 
trifle on his return from a journey. It was not 
strange that, in mentioning the circumstance after- 
wards, he should show how his heart had been glad- 
dened by her confidence, while he owned that he had 
often been grieved that one of his children felt so 
much less freedom with him than the other. 

Is not our reserve and want of trust, in our 
heavenly Father's care and desire for our happiness 
and good, a dishonor to him who has declared that 
" like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord 
pitieth them that fear Him '' ? 

Again, it seems to me, we may heartily trust our 
heavenly Father to forgive us our sins for the sake 
of His dear Son Christ Jesus ; and yet is there not 
sometimes an unconfessed shrinking from casting 
upon our Lord the care which is the consequence of 
our sins or mistakes ? But we surely need to ask 
Him what he would have us learn by these chastenings, 
praying Him to save us from bitterness and hardness 
of heart, and that this discipline may soon yield to us 
the peaceable fruit of righteousness. We surely can- 
not think He does not " care " that we should be 
made better by them. 

I have seen a little child when punished by his 
faithful, tender mother turn to her with an outburst 
of love and sorrow, clasping his arms around her 
neck, unwilling to be parted from her for a moment. 
How much dearer the little fellow was to her than if 
he had borne his punishment in sullen silence \ aye, 
and how much less likely was he to repeat the fault. 



CASTING, OR CARRYING? 173 

The confidence that declares : " He hath smitten 
and he will heal us " is precious to our heavenly 
Father. Is it not significant that the apostle's exhorta- 
tion, "Casting all your care upon Him," follows closely 
upon the command " Humble yourselves, therefore, 
under the mighty hand of God " ? It is spiritual 
pride, as well as unbelief, which would read, instead : 
" Carrying at least some of your care away from Him, 
for He careth not for you in certain matters." Ah, 
it is sadly true that we sometimes make ourselves 
self-appointed scapegoats to bear away our burdens 
into the wilderness, into a land not inhabited. 

Let us be very sure that all care may and should 
be consecrated, whether it be anxiety temporal or 
spiritual, for ourselves or for others, for individuals 
or for nations. 

A heavy load once bowed 

My heart and soul ; 

Fainting, I cried aloud 

Beneath my dole ; 

Then Jesus said : — Am I not strong to bear 

This burden also — all thy grief and care } 

Dost thou indeed believe 

My love and might ? 

Ah, then, at once receive 

A dear child's right. 

' Let not your heart be troubled,' be thy song. 

Rest all upon my shoulder. I am strong. 

Is not " care " one of the " all things " working 
together for good to those who love God ? The oc- 
casion of anxiety or suffering may remain, yet the 
burden be lifted from heart and mind. The soul 



174 CASTING, OR CARRRING? 

that has cast all care upon the Lord goes on to 
" commit his way also unto Him, trusting Him 
to bring it to pass." No need now, to measure and 
weigh the burden, once and forever cast where, 
blessed be God, '' the government " safely rests — 
"upon His shoulder." 

Years ago, there was a mother dying. Her heart 
had been torn with anxiety for the little children she 
was leaving, until she surrendered them utterly to 
Him who is the Father of the fatherless. 

As she lay, weak and worn with suffering, dreading 
the physical struggle of dying, she clung to the hands 
of those who loved her, saying : " It seems to help 
me bear the pain — mine is a very dependent na- 
ture; you know how it has been, all my life." 
Then thoughtfully she added : " Perhaps that is not 
right. I will let everything go, and look straight to 
Christ;" and she loosened her hands from the clasp 
of those beside her, all powerless except for sympa- 
thy, and folded them quietly on her breast, and so 
lay, waiting for her Lord. 

A little later, she said, brokenly : " I am so weak I 
cannot listen, I cannot even pray. The only thing I 
can do — is to cast all my sins — and my sorrows — and 
my cares — on Jesus — and just let him take care of 
me." Faithfully He did take care of her, and so He 
will, of every soul that trusts in Him, — for life, death 
and through all eternity. 



CHRIST IN ART. 175 



CHRIST IN ART. 



Many earnest Christians conscientiously condemn 
pictorial illustrations of Bible stories, and especially 
any representation of our Lord Jesus Christ, "God 
manifest in the flesh." 

While honoring their sincerity and acknowledging 
the high reverence for God's Holy Word, and for 
Him who was emphatically the Word of God, which 
prompts their condemnation, does it not appear that 
these pictured parables often set forth truth most 
vividly and strikingly before the eyes and hearts of 
the simple and ignorant ? Years ago, an earnest and 
most faithful missionary in Japan begged for illus- 
trated Scripture stories, especially for such as showed 
the human life of the Saviour, as one of the readiest 
and most effective means of teaching the gospel to 
the Japanese heathen. 

And in our own land, an incident recently oc- 
curred which I think might remove the scruples of 
the most prejudiced. A simple-hearted woman was 
employed as servant in a Christian household, and,^ 
the first time she was sent to dust the parlors, 
her attention was arrested by an engraving of Sir 
Noel Paton's picture of "Christ in the garden, with 
His three disciples." In speaking to me about it,. 
she said : " I was ashamed to stay in there so long^ 



176 CHRIST IN ART. 

I don't know what Mrs. Gray must have thought, but 
it seemed as if I couldn't get enough of that picture. 
It was all so real, as if it was just happening there 
row." I asked her how she had known what it was. 
" Why, ma'am, don't you remember you read to me 
once about that night in the garden, when Jesus was 
in His agony, praying all alone, when He'd asked 
three of His disciples to keep awake and be company 
for Him, as if He wouldn't be so lonesome if they 
was near by and praying too. And there in the pict- 
ure it was all so true. Jesus had just come to them 
and found all three of them — Peter, too, that was so 
forward and sure of himself — all of them under the 
trees fast asleep, and Jesus looking at them so dis- 
appointed. Oh ! I knew what it was without asking 
anybody. Every time I dusted the room, I just used 
to go and stand there and look at Him." 

Some time after, I alluded to the impression made 
upon Nora by the picture. My friend remarked : 
"Nora never spoke of it, but I remember noticing, 
■when she was sitting with baby in her arms in the 
next room, she used to place her chair so she could 
look through the doorway towards the picture hang- 
ing over the piano. I understand it now." 

Dark nights of trial, and sorrowful, lonely watching 
have been Nora's lot since then. I cannot but hope 
the memory of that garden agony, borne for us " the 
■night on which He was betrayed," has been a comfort 
and strength to her in her sorrows, and that through 
Christian art one simple soul has been brought nearer 
to the Saviour of sinners. 



''HE CARRIES THEM UP HILLr I77 



HE CARRIES THEM UP HILL.' 



The other day, the children were learning the 
twenty-third Psalm, and we were talking together 
about the Good Shepherd, and how He takes care of 
the sheep and the little lambs. Impetuous Mary, 
eager to speak her one thought, said rapidly, — 

" He feeds them and drives away the lions and the 
bears." 

" Yes," said Tiny, thoughtfully ; " and He carries 
them up hill." 

" He carries them up hill! " 

The words went to my heart with a strength and 
sweetness the little speaker did not dream of. Often, 
often since, their music has thrilled through my tired 
soul, like an echo of the angels' song. 

He, who in the days of His flesh, grew weary with 
His journey and rested at noontide by Jacob's well- 
even then not resting from His Father's work ; He, 
who bore the crushing burthen of our sins so often 
up the lonely slopes of Olivet ; now, in His glorified 
humanity, as well as in His divine nature, "fainteth 
not, neither is weary." 

And He it is, who " carries us up hill ; " up every 
rough and rugged mountain-path of duty and suffer- 
ing, if we will only cling to Him and trust His 
strength. 

12 



178 ''HE CARRIES THEM UP HILW 

It is such rest to know that He will never be weary 
of us ; that, heavy-laden as we are, we can never 
tire the Everlasting arms. The Master has not yet 
ceased teaching us in parables, and sometimes a little 
child's unconscious touch opens a blessed meaning 
to us. 

Memory with her quick glance, flashing through 
long years, brings back most vividly to me, one sum- 
mer day of childhood, with its lesson of happy trust. 
We were spending the summer at Fort Lee, upon the 
Hudson. I remember well the long, bright, sunshiny 
day ; such as never comes to us except when we are 
children and take no thought for the morrow. We 
had been playing for hours on the beach, watching 
the little waves roll higher and higher up on the 
sands, as the tide came in. We longed for evening 
only that our father might come back to us, and this 
evening we watched for him with special eagerness, 
because he had promised when he left, to take us all 
up the Palisades, to see the sunset, on his return. 
Some friends from the city arrived with him, I re- 
member, and joined our little mountain party ; and as 
we children crowded eagerly around, impatient to 
start, one of the party said to my father, looking 
down at me : — 

*' Surely you don't mean to take that child up the 
mountain with you ! You would have to carry her 
half the way." " Better stay at home and play with 
your doll, Pussy ! " said she, turning to me. 

How well I remember the words and the tone. 
though I \vas only four years old ! I felt so little, 
and the strange lady was so big and important. 



''HE CARRIES THEM UP HILL^ 179 

Chilled by the threatened disappointment, I caught 
my breath, waiting only for my father's word. 

"No, no," said he, in his cheerful, decided way; 
" that would never do. I have promised her, and she 
shall go, if I have to carry her all the way.'' And 
up the steep, mountain-path, in that glorious evening 
light I went, borne gaily on his shoulder, with my 
arms around his neck. How I loved my father for 
it ; my grateful hug was instead of words, and with 
what utter trust I clung to him, sure of his strength, 
of his love, of his truth. 

His noble head rests now in the old church-yard ; 
but, as that bright picture gleams out from the shadows 
of many years, I thank God for the precious type of 
Himself, He gave me that fair summer sunset long 
ago. If my father's promise had failed me then, it 
seems to me 1 could never, never again have felt 
such undoubting trust in him ; and I am sure I should 
have missed the sweetness of the little child's simple 
words, when years afterwards she said of the Lord, 
our Shepherd, " He carries them up hill." 



i8o HOPE ARCHER'S PARABLE. 



HOPE ARCHER'S PARABLE. 



It would be a blessed thing if every village had a 
"Cousin Bess" like ours. She is the most comforta- 
ble and tfusty of counsellors, sympathetic as she is 
wise and good, and so bright and cheery and warm- 
hearted, that her house is the chosen resort of all the 
young folks of Norriston. Dearest of all the bright 
girls who gather around her is Hope Archer, an 
orphan, a sweet, lovely little woman of nineteen, who 
is governess in the family of Squire Norris, the great 
man of the place. Hope's life this last year has 
been gladdened and saddened by a great joy and a 
bitter sorrow. 

Cousin Bess knows all about it, and, in the heavy 
trial through which the young girl has passed, the 
older woman has suffered and struggled with her. 

For the same lack of steadfastness which Wayne 
Halsey betrayed during his engagement to Hope was 
shown by Wayne's father towards Cousin Bess when, 
long ago, he forsook her for the sake of the heiress of 
old Nathan Gould. 

To be sure, Wayne's fickle fancy only flitted away 
for a while he averred, and he returned, penitent and 
ashamed, to Hope and prayed her to promise still to 
be his wife. When she refused to give him any 
pledge and returned his ring, though she could not 



HOPE ARCHER' S PARABLE. i8i 

hide from him how faithfully she loved him still, he 
bade her good-bye, and no one in Norriston has seen 
him since that day. He wrote to Cousin Bess that 
if he lived he would come back a different sort of a 
fellow and, he hoped, a better one. He didn't blame 
Hope a bit for not trusting such a butterfly of a 
fellow as he had been. 

Wayne Halsey holds that mysterious, magnetic, 
personal charm, impossible to describe or analyze, 
but whose possession we are wont to recognize in our 
"pet sinners," the irresistible winsomeness, through 
all faults and follies, by which many an unprincipled 
Absalom steals the hearts of all Israel. 

Not that any of us in Norriston, unless it be Carroll 
Norris or Frank Guernsey, would care to call Wayne 
Halsey hard names. Indeed, when he went away, 
we thought with a sigh we could have better spared 
some better man. 

Carroll Norris is especially pleased with Wayne's 
absence. He confided to Cousin Bess, not long ago, 
his opinion that "Hope's head was level," and fol- 
lowed up with this syllogism : 

" Hope won't marry that good-for-nothing fellow, 
or any one like him. That he, Carroll Norris, is not 
the least like him (which is true). Therefore, Hope 
will be very much pleased to marry him, Carroll 
Norris." 

To which piece of false logic Cousin Bess replies 
with an emphatic shake of the head, but the con- 
ceited young fellow will not believe her. Cool, 
clever, calculating, miscalculating Carroll Norris. 

I find I have not begun to tell you about Hope's 



1 82 HOPE ARCHER'S PARABLE. 

parable yet, and I am tormented with the fear that 
you will be so tired with my long introduction, like 
the fine-print pages in the first part of the Waverley 
Novels, that you will not finish my story. But, really, 
now I am going to tell it. 

The other day Hope came into the pleasant sitting- 
room where Cousin Bess was reading just at sunset, 
put her arms around her old friend's neck, and then 
sat down in her favorite place at her feet, and looked 
up with a face full of emotion. 

" Well, childie, what is it ? What does this rain- 
bow face mean ? " 

Cousin Bess laid her hand on the girl's soft hair, 
and kissed her tenderly as she spoke. 

" Cousin Bess, do you believe in parables, outside 
of the Bible ? " 

" That depends," said she smiling. " I do believ-e 
that God in his providence gives many a secret lesson 
by types, which he sends home to our hearts for 
private interpretation. But tell me what your parable 
is, dear child." 

" I dare say it will not seem like much when I tell 
it, though it does mean a great deal to me," said 
Hope, softly. " You know Mary West has been 
sick and shut up in the house for ever so long, and 
the other day I had a note from her begging me to 
come down on Saturday, and especially asking me to 
sing and play for her. So, last night I gathered 
together some music that I knew she would like, and 
rolled it up ready to take with me. This morning, I 
thought of those songs you love, that Wayne gave me ; 
I knew Mary would enjoy them, and it seemed selfish 



HOPE ARCHER'S PARABLE. 183 

not to take them to sing for her. So I made up a little 
package of those songs and fastened it, as I thought, 
securely with the others. Just as we were landing at 
New Brighton, a runaway horse dashed down the 
street to the boat, and we had to spring aside until he 
was caught. I hurried off the boat and' was walking 
up to Mrs. West's, when I missed my precious roll. 
I started back, but the bell had rung and the boat 
was steaming away. All I could do was to take a 
car and try and reach the next landing in advance of 
the boat. 

" Well, dear, to make a long story short, it wasn't to 
be found anywhere. Everybody was as kind as pos- 
sible and tried to help me, but no one had even seen 
my missing roll. One blundering, kind-hearted fellow 
suggested, ' Ye mought ha' drapt it overboard, miss, 
when yon tearing brute of a horse skairt a' the 
wimmin folks' wits away.' 

" So I had to go up to Mary West's with a heavy 
heart. Do you think me awfully silly and supersti- 
tious ? That little roll of songs was the only thing I 
kept that Wayne had ever given me, and in losing 
it I seemed to lose him too." 

Cousin Bess bent down and kissed Hope's up- 
turned face for her only answer. 

" I don't mind telling you," said Hope softly. " I 
did pray real hard that I might find it somehow, 
somewhere. 

" I sang and played as well as I could, and Mary 
thanked me so sweetly I felt ashamed of myself. 
Isn't there something in Proverbs about the cruelty of 
singing songs to a heavy heart ? But I sang to myself 



1 84 HOPE ARCHER'S PARABLE. 

as well as to Mary, and somehow the hopeless^ 
miserable feeling passed away, and the old thought 
came to me that used to give me courage when I was 
a little child — that the thing I had lost was surely 
somewhere, somewhere, and that God knew all about 
it, though I didn't. So I had that comfort on my 
way home, and as the boat neared the Battery the 
thought flashed across me : ' Ask for it on the other 
side.' So I asked, and there I found it, kept safely 
for me all those painful hours. Is it very silly," said 
Hope with a lovely look in her eyes, " to take com- 
fort and courage from such a parable, to think that 
I may — that I shall — find Wayne, if never before, 
safe at last on the other side ? " 



A CHRISTMAS CARD. i8S 



HOW A CHRISTMAS CARD SAVED A LIFK 



Merry Christmas time was drawing near, and I 
wanted some pretty illuminations to give away, so I 
went one morning to 150 Nassau street, where I knew 
I should find a beautiful variety. 

While I was looking over a multitude of mottoes, 
and making my choice, I noticed a lady near me, ap- 
parently bent on the same errand. After a few min- 
utes, as she seemed unable to find what she was 
seeking, I asked her if there were any among those 
I had chosen which she particularly liked. 

She thanked me pleasantly, and said she had 
selected all she wished except one, and she felt 
pretty sure of finding it among the unassorted cards, 
for it had been published, she thought, by the Tract 
Society only the year before. 

" It is one with purple pansies— heart's-ease, you 
know — and the verse : 

'-Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you.' 
I want it for a special use," she said ; and then added 
impulsively: "Those words saved a life — a soul — 
last Christmas. You don't wonder they are pre- 
cious ! " 

Then in a few words, she gave the outline of the 
story of one who had, through terrible trials, lost 
faith in human love, truth and honor, and, — worst of 



1 86 HOW A CHRISTMAS CARD 

all, in his misery had made shipwreck of his faith in 
God. 

It was a Christmas day. He started to leave the 
house, with the full purpose of committing suicide. 
The children were just coming home from a Sun- 
day-school Christmas-tree, eager and happy with 
their pretty presents. He stole out through a room 
from which they had passed, so that no one might 
see him leave the house. Lying on the floor, 
just where he must step to cross the threshold, was a 
card, with purple pansies and the words : ''Casting 
all your care upon Him, for he careth for you." 
Startled, thrilled to his soul, he could not pass by 
that message from heaven, facing him, as if to drive 
him back from his wicked, cowardly purpose. Faith 
in God and His love came back, and with it came 
courage and strength to take up the heavy burden of 
a bruised and shattered life. God did care for him, 
and was a very present help in trouble. 

The story touched me deeply, and has often recur- 
red to me since, though I have never seen the lady 
again, and know nothing further of the circumstances. 
It always comes back with special force, whenever I 
have to choose Scripture verses to give away. Since 
we have the promise, " My word shall not return unto 
me void," may we not rightly ask God's peculiar bless- 
ing on these little messengers, which go to so many 
homes we may never enter ? 

1 could not help thinking that perhaps some one 
had been praying " in secret " for God's blessing on 
that very message. 

The hand of God was so clearly in it all, guiding 



SAVED A LIFE. ^^7 

the choice of the text, providing that this one and no 
other should be given to the little child,-that her 
chilled fingers should carry it safely through the 
streets, and then drop it at the very moment, and in 
the only place, where it would save a life,— that it 
seemed to me it would be for His honor to repeat 
the story of His loving care, which came to me so 

strangely. 

May it be a Father's message to some other poor 
troubled heart, assuring him of the faithfulness of 
Him who "will not suffer us to be tempted above 
that we are able; but will with the temptation make 
a way of escape, that we may be able to bear it." 
May it remind him of One who was wounded for our 
transgressions, and on whose tender, human heart we 
may to-day cast all our sins, and our sorrows, and 
our cares, and be sure that He will care for us. 



i^^ AN INCIDENT OF 



AN INCIDENT OF THE WEEK OF PRAYER 



During the Week of Prayer, I was present with a 
friend at an up-town meeting, the subject for the day 
being "Humiliation and Confession— for personal 
failings, for social vices," etc. After several prayers 
had been offered, a gentleman quietly arose and said 
with emphasis: "'I acknowledge my transgression^ 
and my sin is ever before me;' yet let me never 
forget that ' the Lord is good and ready to forgive, and 
plenteous in mercy unto all them that call upon Him.' 
I have proved this true in my own experience, and as 
It grows out of and is connected with the Week of 
Prayer, it seems to me not unfitting that I should tell 
the story of God's grace now and here. To some of 
you the incident is already known. 

" It was twelve years ago. I was then a confirmed 
drunkard, an outcast from respectable society a 
wreck, soul and body. I had tried again and ao-ain 
to break loose from the evil habit which held me? I 
had tried pledges, resolutions, the Inebriate Asy- 
lum, all in vain. I knew I was going down to death 
temporal and eternal, and yet had no power to stop.' 
Already I was suffering in my body the terrible wages 
of sin. I was very miserable. 

"It was Sabbath morning after the Week of 
Prayer. Special intercession had been made for me 



THE WEEK OF PR A YER. 1 89 

during the week, but I knew nothing of it. I deter- 
mined to go to church that morning, not from any 
sense of sin or desire for pardon, but only with a 
longing to be freed from the penalty of bodily suffer- 
ing which was tormenting me or, at least, to secure 
some respite. 

" As I walked along the street to the church, my 
thoughts were very busy. I looked back on my life, 
realizing that I had lost everything which had once 
been mine — friends, health, position, good name. I 
was miserable indeed. 

" Entering the church, I sat down in a pew, and, 
while sitting there, the Spirit of God found me. I 
thought, ' Would it be possible for God to save me ? ' 
and, like an answer from heaven, came the words of 
the Saviour : ' Come unto Me, all ye that labor and 
are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' 

" The man of God preached from the words : ' I 
am that bread of life.' The sermon seemed intended 
expressly for me. Listening to that blessed gospel 
message, I repented and believed. 

" As I left the church and walked along the street, 
I thought within myself : ' Dare I speak to others of 
this wonderful change which has been wrought in me ? 
Dare I call myself a disciple of Christ — so full of 
sin, and utterly without strength to resist temptation 
as I am ? ' Then came to my mind God's words to 
Peter, which answered my doubt — ' My grace is suf- 
ficient for thee, for My strength is made perfect in 
weakness ; ' and I trusted His strength and it never 
failed me. 

" I have lived here ever since, in this city, as some 



190 A.V INCIDENT OF 

of those who are present know. The Lord has kept 
me all these twelve years. He has given me back to 
friends and home and an honest, honorable life. You 
can judge whether I have not reason to love and re- 
member the blessed Week of Prayer. 

" Let me say to any who are discouraged about 
those who have gone astray, God has power to save 
them. I know it, for none could be more utterly 
lost than I was. The Lord still says : ' Let the wick- 
ed forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his 
thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord and He 
will have mercy upon him, and to our God, for He 
will abundantly pardon.' Therefore ' let us come 
boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain 
mercy and find grace to help in time of need.' " 

We listened with hearts awed and thrilled by the 
narration. I think no one could forget the deep im- 
pression made by the story of God's grace, told in 
such deep earnestness and gratitude. 

The following day, the subject under consideration 
was " Prayer for families, and for all who have the 
care of children and youth," etc. We were especial- 
ly interested when the same gentleman arose and, 
after briefly alluding to God's rescue of himself, 
remarked that, although he knew that salvation was 
entirely of God, he still felt deeply grateful to the 
human hand which had brought to him the gospel 
offer. 

" We do not honor the Lord the less," said he, " for 
honoring and loving His messengers. How can I but 
be ever grateful to that faithful man of God who was 
such a patient friend through all those years of strug. 



THE WEEK OF PRAYER. 19 ^ 

gle, who cheered and helped and strengthened my 
heart in the Lord, giving me wise counsel and a broth- 
er's sympathy ? 

" Nor can I ever forget or cease to bless God for 
the loving Christian mother who long ago taught me 
to pray, who when I was only a little fellow led me to 
the house of God, who stored my childish mind with 
Scripture truth which came back to memory long 
after she had been taken away from me. 

" God's promises are sure, and I am only one more 
proof of the security of the old pledge to those who 
train up their children in the fear of the Lord. They 
may give sore grief for years by wandering from the 
right way, yet ivhen they are old they will not depart 
from it." 



19- "/ surrender:' 



I SURRENDER." 



In one of our hospitals lay a wounded officer, 
dying far away from his home. Young, brilliant, and 
beloved, death came to him as an unwelcome mes- 
senger. In his buoyant health and strength, he had, 
like another young man, turned away from Jesus, 
clinging to his "great possessions," and unwilling to 
humble himself to enter into the kingdom of heaven 
as a little child. 

When the shadow^s of eternity were closing around 
him, his proud heart was troubled, and he began to 
seek Him w^hom he had rejected. Earnestly and 
eagerly he asked to be shown the w^ay of salvation, 
but as often he turned away from the free grace of 
God. His sister and the chaplain repeated the prom- 
ises of God again and again : " God so loved the world, 
that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever 
believeth on Him should not perish, but have ever- 
lasting life." — " Him that cometh unto Me, I wdll in 
no wise cast out." But the habit of years appeared 
to be strong on him still, and pride of intellect wres- 
tled with the simplicity of gospel truth. His sense 
of sinfulness was deep ; he seemed to feel that he 
was lost. 

" I cannot understand it ! " he exclaimed. " I am 
willing ; but I cannot see how believmg can save me. 
Oh, help me, help me ! I cannot understand it ! " 



"/ surrender:' 193 

Worn and wearied by mental struggles in addition to 
his physical sufferings, he yet returned constantly to 
that one thing. Earnestly his sister prayed and 
pleaded for him, and would not give him up. He 
seemed to be brought almost to the threshold of the 
kingdom ; but, unconsciously to himself, his pride, 
*'the strong man armed," beat him back. 

At last the simple gospel words, " He that believ- 
eth on the Son of God hath everlasting life ; " " Be- 
lieve on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be 
saved ; " " Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are 
heavy laden, and I will give you rest," — applied to 
his soul with power by the Holy Ghost, reached his 
heart. His face grew brilliant like a child's. With 
momentary strength he raised himself from the pil- 
low j and, stretching out his arms, he exclaimed with 
thrilling earnestness, — 

"I accept the terms: I surrender !^^ 

That one cry of faith was his last. In that final 
"surrender" the soul went out to meet its Maker. 

But, ah ! how nearly " too late " was it for him ! The 
Arch-enemy, as of old over the body of Moses, " con- 
tended " for his soul. But it was, we trust, a "brand 
plucked from the burning " by an everlasting arm of 
strength. 

Fellow-Christians, should not the language of our 
lives be, every day and every hour : " I surrender ; I 
surrender " ? Every purpose, every longing, every 
joy, we should bring to Him for the seal of His good 
pleasure. Life would then be no barren, joyless 
thing, but an ever-new and ever-strengthening impulse 
from the one Life-giver. Though, while we look 
13 



194 •'/ surrender:' 

steadfastly toward heaven, some cherished life-work 
may be parted from us, and the clouds receive it out 
of our sight, yet let us not fear that we shall be the 
losers by a cheerful surrender. It may come back to 
us " after many days," clad with an angel's energy, 
and consecrated anew with the blessing and the mes- 
sage which were given at Bethany eighteen hundred 
years ago. 

Fellow-sinner, while pardon and peace and a Fa- 
ther's blessing are offered to you, " surrender." Let 
not your pride be your destruction. If Christ the 
Lord stooped from heaven to offer you eternal life 
through His blood, will you be too proud to reach out 
your hand, and take it from the hand that was pierced 
for you ? 

" Kiss the Son, lest he be angry, and ye perish from 
the way when his wrath is kindled but a little." 



A TRUE INCIDENT. 195 



A NINETEENTH-CENTURY BARREL OF 
MEAL. 

A TRUE INCIDENT. 

One bright spring morning, I called at the house 
of Mrs. Macgregor, a Scotch woman whose acquaint- 
ance I had made at one of our little missionary 
prayer-meetings some time previous. I had been at- 
tracted, from the first, by her warm-hearted simple 
faith and the quaint directness of her language, which, 
as timidity was lost in earnestness, sometimes lapsed 
into her native dialect. 

She was a little woman, with a small, thin face and 
intelligent blue eyes. Somebody once described her 
as a "wisp of straw," and she did indeed look as 
if a strong gust of March wind might blow her away ; 
but she possessed a tenacity of purpose, an energy 
and power of endurance, that enabled her both to do 
and suffer more than many a plump, comfortable- 
looking woman of greater apparent vigor. 

On this occasion, she was speaking of the unfailing 
kindness of the Lord in providing for her and her 
family, ever since she was left a widow with four little 
children — the youngest only three months old at the 
time of her husband's sudden death. She spoke 
gratefully of the kind friends who had been raised 
up, and had supplied her with work at her home, and 
mentioned repeated instances in which employment 



jg6 A NINETEENTH-CENTURY 

had been exactly suited to her ability and the circum- 
stances of her family. 

I could not help noticing how constantly she 
claimed the promises of God, and grounded her ex- 
pectation of things needful on the Lord's pledged 
word, 

" It has aye been, ma'am, that strength, as well as 
oor bread, has been gien as the day has had need o' 
it, so I hae had nae ca' for worry aboot the morrow." 

" But have you never been disheartened t " I asked, 
feeling the unconscious rebuke of her courageous 
faith. 

" Whiles, ma'am, for a bit, but I've always foun' it 
a guid thing to be sent direc' to the Lord for help 
an' comfort. I couldna gae to ony man leeving, tho' 
it be my ain brither, an' tell him o' oor need, but I 
think nae shame to tell it a' to the Lord. I'm sure, 
sure, He kens it a' weel eneuch beforehan', but He 
maun mean we sould hae the guid o' pourin' oot oor 
hearts, or He wadna bid us be carefu' for naething, 
but in ilka thing, wi' giein' o' thanks, to mak known 
oor requests unto Him. An' ye min', ma'am, we hae 
His ain word for it ; gin we do as He bids, His vera 
ain peace shall keep oor hearts through Jesus Christ." 

" Yes, indeed, but it sometimes takes us a good 
while to learn to do without worry, does it not? " 

" Dinna ye think, ma'am, that the Lord sometimes 
shuts us a' up i' the daurk, wi' oor ain emptiness, to 
gie us a lesson o' His fulness ? I min' weel ane dour 
time, four yea sin', an' hoo He shamed me wi' His 
guidness. 

" There had been some trooble or ither i' the mills, 



BARREL OF MEAL, 197 

an' the wark was stoppit for a fortnicht, sae the lads 
had naething but a job here an' there, an' then Ken- 
neth fell sick, an' the rent was near due, an' I had 
gien my word to be punctooal, especial sin' the 
lan'lord had put down the rent, considerin'. 

"It was the spring-time, sae we had nae mickel 
need o' fire, for whilk I was vera thankfu'. We had 
twa loaves o' bread whilk I had bakit i' the morn, 
wi' the scrapin's o' the meal-barrel. 

" Ah, ma'am, my heart sank down, down, when I 
thocht o' the lads oot o' wark, an' Kenneth sick, an' 
the barrel empty, an' the rent due on Friday; an' 
then the de'il gied a twich o' his evil fingers at my 
heavy heart to gar me lose courage an' my trust i' the 
guidness o' the Lord. 

" I had twa gowns i' the hoose to mak for a young 
neebor woman, but I hadna been able to sew for 
three or four days, on account o' Kenneth. But noo 
I maun begin them, an' by warkin' day an nicht I 
made sure o' finishin' them, an' wi' the money for the 
wark I wad pay the rent. 

" Sae I wrought a' the day lang, an' a' Tuesday 
nicht thro', an' a' the next day, savin' to do what was 
needfu' aboot the rooms an' for Kenneth (we didna 
hae mickle cookin'), but when Wednesday nicht 
cam' aroon' the wark wasna half dune, an' I "was sae 
a'thegither tired oot, an' my head was sae bad, I 
couldna put in anither stitch. I was fair discooraged 
wi' my fine plans. 

" I just laid my head doon on the table an' began 
to greet. It seemed as though the Lord Himsel' was 
against me, for a' my strivin' to keep my word was 



198 A NINE TEE NTH-CENTURY 

nae guid. Jamie, my biggest laddie — he was near 
fifteen then — came into the room while I was dryin' 
my e'en. I'm nae mickle gien to cryin', an' the lad 
was fair astonished to see me sae o'ercome. 

" ' Mither/ said he, ' may be the lan'lord wad wait 
a day. It canna be sae mickle to him as it is to us.' 

^' ' But, Jamie, there's my gien word,' I said. 

""'Weel, mither, greetin' '11 do nae guid to him 
nor to you. We'd mickle better pray.' 

" Sae we went to my little room and kneeled down 
thegither, an' Jamie prayed first, an' then he went 
awa' to his bed. But I didna rise frae my knees. 
O ma'am, I canna tell ye hoo close the guid Lord 
was, just as He was wont to be when He was upo' the 
earth an' let puir women touch His garments an' pour 
oot their sad hearts at His feet. I just tellt Him He 
kent weel hoo I had been strivin' i' my ain strength, 
an' hoo I hadna keepit a guid cheer i' Him, but had 
been sair downhearted an' dootin'. But He had aye 
been forgivin' an' mercifu' to me, an' I had naethin' 
to do but gae to Him for forgiveness, an' I was sure, 
sure, He was aye mair glad to gie it than I was to get it. 

" I made bold, too, to ask Him if He wad be pleased 
to let help come to us in a certain way for the mor- 
row, an' then a' the care an' weariness were gane, 
an' I stoppit thinkin' o' oor need, an' was sae glad 
o' heart to be at His feet I thocht o' naethin' but 
a' His loving-kindness. 

" I took nae heed o' the time till it struck ane o' 
the clock, an' then I went richt awa' to bed an slept 
sweet an' soun' as a baby, wi' nae thocht nor care for 
the morrow. 



BARREL OF MEAL, 199 

" The next day, I finished ane o' the gowns an, 
carried it hame, but I couldna get my pay for it. I 
wasna fash't though, for I kent weel eneuch the Lord 
could hae sent the money that way gin he had a 
mind to. 

" I' the afternune a neebor woman, a kin'-hearted 
body, though she doesna believe i' the Beeble nor i' 
prayin', steppit in to ask after the bairn. She said to 
me suddintly : 

" ' Mrs. Macgregor, do you know there's a barrel of 
flour for you at the station ? ' 

" I didna say a word. I wasna surprised, but sae 
thankfu' I couldna speak. 

" ' Were you expectin' it ? ' she asked, kind o' 
sharp. 

"'Yes,' I toldher, 'I was.' 

" ' What made you ? ' asked she. 

** I told her I had need o' it, an' had asked for it. 

" * You don't pretend to tell me you prayed for it ! ' 
said she. 

" ' Yes, Mrs. Kean,' I said, I had. 

" * Weel, you will have it to-morrow I suppose,' 
she said, kind o' wonderin', as if she didn't fair 
believe it. 

" I told her I expected to have it that nicht, for I 
needed it. She didna bide lang, but when she went 
to the door to gae hame, she cried oot : 

" ' Well, I never ! This does beat all. Mrs Mac- 
gregor, here's Sandy Brown wi' your barrel o' flour.' 

" An' sae it was. Wi'oot a word or thocht o' mine, 
the barrel was in my hoose, an' Sandy wad scarce be 
thankit for the bringin' 0' it. He was a kind lad, the 



2 Ob A NINETEENTH-CENTURY 

son o' an' auld widdy I had nursit i' the fever, an' the 
lad was aye fain to do some guid turn or ither to his 
mither's frien's." 

" But did you never know where the barrel came 
from ? " I asked. 

" Oh ! yes, indeed, ma'am ; that's the best part o' it. 
That vera nicht my brither, who is a butcher in New 
York, knockit at oor door. He askit, maist as sune 
as he cam' ben, if I had received a barrel o' flour, an'^ 
if we had been in need o' it or in distress o' ony sort. 
Sae, ma'am, I tellt him a' the truth, an' aboot the 
nicht afore, an' that I had askit the Lord to put it 
into his heart to sen' me some flour. He got up an^ 
walkit up and doon the room, an' the tears ran down 
his face. (He was aye tender-hearted, forbye he had 
sic an' unco' sair trade.) 

" ' This goes ahead o' anything I ever knew, Mary,' 
says he. An' then he began an' tellt me that he 
couldna rest the Wednesday nicht, for e'en as sune 
as he wad shut his e'en there I stude before him in 
his dreams, an' he felt sure I was in trooble. I' the 
morn when, he gaed oot for his orders, he stoppit to 
see an auld frien' o' oors, an' she askit him direckly 
when he had seen his sister Mary. He said it was 
near a twal-month. 

" ' Weel, Robbie,' said she, ' ye maun gae an' 
see her immejitnly. I'm a'thegither sure she's in 
trooble.' 

" He said he couldna posseebly gae, but she keepit 
on urgin' him till he tellt her he maun gae to his 
beeziness, but he wad sen' a barrel o' flour express. 
But a' the day lang, he said, I was in his thochts sae 



BARREL OF MEAL. 20i 

he couldna rest, till he tuik the train an' made sure o' 
kennin' the truth his ain sel. 

" An', ma'am, he gied me money for twa months' 
rent, an' wad scarce be content that I wouldna gie 
my word to let him ken if we sould ever be in sair 
straits again. Ye may weei be sure, ma'am, I thankit 
my brither an' thankit the Lord for the guid answer 
which cam' sae sune. 

"Dinna ye believe it was the Lord Himsel ' wha 
troubled my brither's dreams at the vera time I was 
prayin', an' dinna the Lord sen' him to yon auld frien' 
o' oors, sae to mak sure he wadna forget my need ? 
Surely He has mony a way to help, by day or by 
nicht, an' we canna conceive o' them, for His ways are 
higher than oor ways and His thochts than oor thochts, 
an'' a' hearts are in His ain han'. Dear ma'am, why 
souldna we trust Him ? " 



202 REDEMPTION OF STRAYS. 



REDEMPTION OF STRAYS. 



One evening, which I shall long remember, I was 
very tired, heart, soul and body. Life seemed so 
difficult, and nothing seemed worth while. Sharp 
pain would have sent me to the Helper, but vague 
despondency and unrest held me in their coils, para- 
lyzed and dull. 

I had been copying some law papers through the 
day. Mechanically I kept on at the work — an index 
of subjects of legislation — although there was then no 
occasion to continue it. No help nor hope for me, 
as I wrote line after line. But suddenly before my eyes 
flashed the words, " Redemption of Strays.^' The words, 
the thought, thrilled my heart, and wrought a revulsion 
of feeling, so swift, so complete, that it held me with 
a sense of awe in the midst of my happiness. It 
seemed as if the Master himself had stooped from 
heaven to show me His hands and His side. 

The cloud was gone : heart and soul were rested 
now. I was at home again, safe, safe, and welcome. 

What a flood of precious Bible words rushed into 
mind when those human words opened the way! " I 
have gone astray like a lost sheep." " But thou hast 
redeemed me." Was it not truly my Shepherd's 
voice, calling me through the earthly words of man's 
work ? 

It seemed to me very beautiful that human law 



REDEMPTION OF STRAYS. 203 

should provide for redemption for God's poor dumb 
creatures, ignorant trespassers, gone astray from 
their rightful owners ; but oh ! what a trivial type, at 
best, of the infinite, everlasting redemption which the 
Lord has provided for His poor wanderers ! I thought 
of that beautiful description of those who were called 
by God from among men to be His high-priests, 
" who can have compassion on the ignorant, and on 
them that are out of the way," and of the one In- 
tercessor forever who is touched with the feeling of 
our infirmities, "being made in all things like unto 
His brethren." " He hath poured out his soul unto 
death." "He bare the sins of many, and made 
intercession for the transgressors." "The good 
shepherd giveth His life for the sheep." " My sheep 
hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow 
me : and I give unto them eternal life, and they shall 
never perish." 

" And He careth for you ! Oh, how He had cared ! " 
Very sweet was the thought of His good providence 
that prepared my way before me, leading me in my 
discouragement and weariness to go on with my 
day's work after the evening-time of rest had come, 
and which made ready the words to "restore my 

soul." 

" When he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoul- 
ders rejoicing!" What rest and safety there is in 
that return to the fold ; not driven, nor even led, but 
wrapped in the Shepherd's seamless robe, laid upon 
His shoulders, and carried home rejoicing. 

Oh ! if every one would only learn for himself how 
pitiful and strong, how merciful and faithful this dear 
Shepherd and Saviour is ! 



2 04 SPEND ING-MONE Y. 



SPENDING-MONEY. 



"Cousin Ruth," said Ethel Grant one day, **did 
you ever come to your last cent ? " 

"Of my spending-money — yes, dear, more than 
once. Why, have you been in straits lately, like the 
hero of the 'lone fish-ball ' ? " 

" Not exactly," answered Ethel laughing ; and then 
with a sudden change to earnestness, she added : " I 
don't know but it would be the best thing for me, if 
it would make me more willing to help people. It's 
an awfully mean thing, I know, but I never do want 
to spend or give away my last twenty-five cents. I 
feel so very queer and helpless without any spending- 
money," said she quaintly. 

" It's not very comfortable I know, dear, and one 
day years ago, I realized pretty keenly what it must 
be for poor wanderers to find themselves penniless 
and far from home." 

" Why, Cousin Ruth ? Oh ! won't you tell me about 
it, that is, if you don't mind ? " 

" I don't mind a bit, dear, but it is not much of a 
story. Once upon a time, or, to be more specific, 
when you were running around in baby-dresses, and 
I was about as old as you are now, it happened that 
I made my first journey alone." 

" Did you have your pocket picked ? " demanded 



SPENDING-MONE Y. 2 05 

Ethel. " Somebody picked mine the time I went to 
Brooklyn alone." 

'' Poor child ! I have heard of another traveler 
who was robbed by thieves of his spending- money. 
Well, what did you do in your trouble ? " 

" Oh ! I went to Uncle John's office, and had to 
borrow fifty cents of his clerk, for Uncle was out of 
town. Oh ! how ashamed I felt." 

"That was rather a mortifying experience to a 
young lady of your independence." 

" Yes, and to have Uncle John ask about my pocket, 
every time he saw me, for six months after," said 
Ethel with a little pout. " But I didn't mean to in- 
terrupt you. Cousin Ruth — please go on." 

"Well," began Ruth, "I was coming home from 
Washington after the Grand Review." 

" Oh ! I heard Uncle John telling Harvey about it 
— how they marched to the music of Old John Brown. 
That was just after the war, wasn't it ? " 

^' Yes," said Ruth Oliphant, her face kindling with 
the old enthusiasm, " May 23d and 24th, 1865. ^ 
think I shall never forget, to my dying day, that grand 
army of worn and tired soldiers, with their tattered, 
faded flags. No pomp or holiday look about them 
now ! They had been through the fight and knew 
what it meant. But oh ! the thin ranks, the many, 
many missing ! Ah ! well, I must not think about that 
now," said Cousin Ruth, rousing herself to speak 
cheerfully. 

"Don't be in a hurry, please. I like to hear about 
real things and real people, and what they did and 
how they felt," pleaded Ethel, with her pretty, coax- 



2 o6 SPENDING-MONE V. 

ing caress. " I don't want to come to the end of it 
too soon." 

" Aren't you afraid there may be a moral tacked on 
at the end, dear ? " said Ruth with a laugh. " Well, 
I will make my story long to please you, but mind, 
if you get tired, it will be your own fault." 

" I'll take the risk," answered Ethel. 

" I stayed in Washington for a week or ten days 
after the Review. It was not my first visit there, but 
it was by far the most delightful one. There were 
always the nicest times in the world at Mr. Lambert's, 
and Grace was my dear friend. And then, deep 
down in our hearts, there was now the undercurrent of 
thankfulness that the war, the terrible four years' war, 
was really over. You know both my brothers were 
in the army, dear, and when they were off staff- 
duty they were very often with us. Poor Grace had 
one brother in the Northern and two in the Southern 
army — " 

"Oh! how dreadful," said Ethel, with a shudder. 
" Did they all live till the end of the war ? " 

'• Yes, rather strangely, and now can talk of those 
sad, terrible times without bitterness. But the 
Southern brothers were not in Washington then. 
Each day of my visit, as it came and went, was bright- 
er and fuller of happiness than the one before, until 
the last of those bright days came to an end. 

" Rather against my brothers' wish, I had chosen 
to take the night train instead of the morning one. 

" When the time came to leave the Lamberts', some 
friends came with my brothers to bid me good-bye, 
and made quite a grand military escort for a little 



SPENDING-MONE Y. 2 07 

girl starting off home on her first journey alone. The 
excitement and novelty of it all kept me from realizing 
that this was to be really good-bye to the pleasant 
Washington days. Even when my brothers had 
arranged everything comfortably for me in the ladies' 
car, kissed me, and given me my ticket with some 
parting injunctions, and some nonsense to keep my 
spirits up, I could not somehow make myself believe 
that they were not all going with me. But when the 
train moved off in the faint moonlight, and I no 
longer saw their waving handkerchiefs and lifted 
caps, I began to realize that I was alone." 

" I think it's horrid, Cousin Ruth, to have to come 
to the end of nice times," said Ethel vehemently. 
"Everything seems so fiat afterwards." 

"I know," said Ruth slowly. "But that is often 
merely the natural reaction after the unusual excite- 
ment. The real happiness of any sweet, pure 'good 
time ' endures and does us good in the memory." 

Ethel looked up with a sudden impulse as if to 
speak, but checked herself, and said : 

" It is too bad. I am interrupting you all the 
while. It is very impolite in me, 'speaking out in 
meeting,' as the old woman said." 

" It does not disturb me at all," said Cousin Ruth 
quietly ; " this is our little talk, and we may as well 
talk as we please." 

" Well, then, Cousin Ruth, did you feel very blue 
that night," asked Ethel. 

" No. I remember amusing myself between the 
snatches of sleep that came to me with sketching my 
sleeping neighbors, and writing notes to send back to 



2 o8 SPENDING-MONE V. 

Gracie Lambert and my brothers. I may have sighed 
a little sigh, remembering the hours and miles that 
were parting me from them, but I did not think they 
would forget me, any more than I dreamed of forget- 
ting them. I was not at all Mase nor at all pathetic," 
^aid she, a little mischievously. 

" I could scarcely believe it," said she, resuming 
her story, "when an expressman came through the 
car and I heard him say we were nearing Jersey City. 
I gave him my baggage check, paying him what I 
afterwards learned was an extortionate charge for 
delivering my valise up-town. I remember I had to 
empty my little outside pocket-book in order to pay 
him, and, foolish child that I was, I never looked to 
see how much change was left in my other purse 
where my bank-check was safely stowed away. In 
those days, you know, Ethel, we had no silver money, 
nothing but paper and nickels. 

" It was four o'clock, a beautiful June daybreak, 
when we crossed the ferry. I felt like a traveler 
landing on an unknown shore, the city seemed so 
strange and dim, everthing looked so queer and shut 
up. I thought how, just two weeks before, we had 
reached Washington as early in the morning, but then 
•Cousin Joe and Belle were with me, and it wasn't at 
all lonesome. There were some pleasant ladies on 
the boat, however, and I thought I would go with 
them to the ladies' restaurant at the ferry before I 
■started up-town. 

" I opened my purse in the waiting-room to count 
my money. Well, I was in a worse plight than even 



SPEND ING-MONE V. 209 

the Harvard professor, for I found I had but just 
five cents ! 

" So there was plainly no breakfast for me at that 
time of day, and I began to wonder how I should 
ever reach Nineteenth street." 

" Poor Cousin Ruth ! " said Ethel. " How did 
you ever manage .? I wouldn't know what in the 
world to do in such a scrape." 

" I remember walking up Cortlandt street towards 
Broadway, feeling, I must confess, rather forlorn, and 
not at all like the brave girl I had thought myself 
when I laughed away my brother's objections to my 
early landing at Jersey City." 

" But why did you not ride up town in a stage or 
street-car ? Were they not running in those days ? " 
asked Ethel, somewhat in the tone she would have 
used to inquire concerning Revolutionary times. 

'•' Oh ! yes ; but the fare in the omnibus was ten 
cents and in a street-car six, and I, alas, had only 
five. I thought of going to the Astor House, but 
then I had never been to any hotel alone, and I did 
not feel inclined to try it." 

" Couldn't you take a carriage ? " 

" No. I did not think that would be as safe or 
comfortable as to walk, so on I trudged up Broadway, 
and began to feel a little faint and cold, and oh ! such 
a longing as I had for the sweet home welcome and 
rest that I knew were always ready for me at my dear 
old friend's. 

" I remembered, remorsefully, how my brother had 
asked me, only the evening before, if I were quite 
sure I had plenty of money to last until I could get 
14 



2 1 SPENDING-MONE V. 

my check cashed, and how confidently I had an- 
swered, Yes. I thought how gladly I would take one 
cent now if I could. 

" At last I reached Canal street. By that time I 
felt pretty much like any other demoralized tramp, 
and made up my mind to pocket my pride, take 
a Sixth-avenue car, and ask the conductor if he 
would carry me for five cents." 

Cousin Ruth stopped to laugh at the recollection, 
and Ethel asked anxiouslv : 

" Well, did he ? " 

"Yes, I suppose he thought I looked tired enough, 
to be honest. I remember telling him I would send 
my full fare to the car-office as soon as I could get a 
check cashed, so he would not get into any trouble 
on my account. It must have sounded rather ridicu- 
lous, I suppose," said Ruth, "but I was very much 
in earnest." 

" I never should have thought of offering to make 
it square in that wa}^," said Ethel. 

" Well, I did not need to do so, as it turned out," 
added Ruth, " for a nice old gentleman in the car, who 
tried hard to look very grave, handed one cent to the 
conductor, saying : ' Allow me to settle the balance 
for this lady.' And then when I turned to thank 
him, he looked at me with such a kind, amused look, 
as if I had been seven instead of seventeen, and 
said : ' Oh ! no matter, my child, no matter ! ' 

" So you see, my dear Ethel, I have been not only 
at the end of my spending-money, but I have actually 
received charity from a stranger once in my life, and 
know how it feels." 



SPENDING-MONE Y. 211 

" It was very queer, and must have been very disa- 
greeable," said Ethel, pondering. 

" Not so very," replied Ruth, with a twinkle in her 
eye, at Ethel's extreme gravity. " It was a kind of 
object lesson to me, on the way to give without mak- 
ing any one uncomfortable." 

"And then, after all," said Ethel, "you knew that 
you had your check, .and that made some difference in 
your feelings." 

"Yes," admitted Cousin Ruth, "but my check 
was no better for immediate use than little Faith's 
jewels and precious roll which the thieves happily 
found not, when they robbed him of his spending- 
money." 

" Oh ! I wanted to know what you meant by saying 
that. It's in Pilgrim's Progress, is it not ? " Ethel 
handed Ruth the old worn copy of Bunyan, and 
kneeling beside her, so as to look on she said : "I 
never can make very much out of these old allegories, 
except easy parts Hke the Slough of Despond and 
the steps Christian could not see in the midst of the 
mire ; and then Doubting Castle and the key called 
Promise, hidden all the while in Christian's bosom, 
which was able to open any lock in the Castle. 
I think that is just beautiful," said Ethel, with the 
soft, earnest look in her eyes Cousin Ruth loved to 
see. 

" So it is, dear, but I think you will like this part, 
too," said she, reading aloud a page or two of Little 
Faith's story. 

"Poor man," she said, "you see he was forced to 
beg as he went, to keep himself alive until he came 



2 1 2 SPENDING-MONE Y. 

to his journey's end, for his jewels he might not sell, 
nor his precious roll, the pledge of his acceptance at 
the gate of the Celestial Cit}^ Those three sturdy 
rogues, Faint Heart, Mistrust, and Guilt, rob a good 
many of us pilgrims of our spending-money to this 
very day," added Ruth, thoughtfully. 

" I don't understand," said Ethel slowly, " what 
spiritual spending-money means. Do you suppose 
it stands for everything we need to make us com- 
fortable and useful on the way ? " 

*• I suppose so, just that. Not our eternal life — 
for that is hid with Christ in God, a jewel no thief 
can touch, — but our hope of it, with strength, peace, 
heart's ease, and joy." 

''But I don't see," said Ethel, "how we can be 
robbed of such blessings." 

Cousin Ruth answered slowly : " Mistrust stole the 
pilgrim's purse, while Guilt with his club knocked 
him down and left him bleeding. If we sin, and 
being of little faith, fail to go to our Father, confess- 
ing our wrong-doing, pleading for forgiveness through 
our Advocate, and receiving the pardon and peace 
He has promised for Jesus' sake, why then our guilty 
conscience brings us low, while mistrust of God's 
mercy and of our right to it, robs us of peace, hope, 
and comfort." 

"Yes, I see now," said Ethel softly. "But we 
don't need to stay robbed do we ? " Ethel's wistful 
look brought the tears to Ruth's eyes. 

" No, dear child," said she, kissing the dear little 
face. " I think Jesus is ever saying to us : ' Where- 
fore didst thou doubt ? ' Faith honors, as surely as 



SPENDING-MONE V. 213 

doubt dishonors our Lord. We are the children of a 
King, and it is not our Father's good pleasure that 
we should go as beggars upon the King's highway, 
while He says to us : ' Things present, and things to 
come, — all things are yours.' " 

" Good-bye, dear Cousin Ruth, and thank you ever 
so much for your story, and the moral, too," said 
Ethel with a grateful kiss and a smile. " I hope I 
shall not mind being short of one kind of spending- 
money, while I have a right to plenty of the other." 



214 SPIRITUAL MALARIA. 



SPIRITUAL MALARIA. 



A LOVELY Christian lady once said to me, when 
.'speaking of the way she had felt while suffering from 
imalaria : " I did not care for anything or anybody. 
I lay on the sofa, and was miserable, and did not 
care whether my house was kept properly or not. It 
seemed as if I did not care for even my baby and my 
liusband, for anything on earth, or in heaven. But 
tonics and change of air completely cured me ! " 

There is a kind of spiritual malaria very prevalent 
nowadays, enervating and depressing in its influence, 
even deadening every noble instinct, all Christian 
principle. Neglect of secret prayer, indifference to 
known duty, sluggish apathy when others need our 
help, selfish discontent with our lot, are not these 
symptoms of this undermining disease ? 

Thank God, there is a great Physician, who know- 
eth our frame, and remembereth that we are dust. 
His hand upon our pulse brings healing. " He giveth 
power to the faint, and to them that have no might 
He increaseth strength." 

Health does not always come back easily. " Tonic 
treatment and change of air," often mean bitterness 
and sorrow, humiliation, bereavement, losses. But 
any healthful suffering is better than a living death. 

If we ever find that we do not care whether we do 



SPIRITUAL MALARIA. 215 

right or wrong, that we do not care whether we hurt 
or help others, that we do not care to follow Jesus in 
self-denial, taking up our cross daily, oh ! let us go 
straight to Him who alone can deliver us from this 
spiritual torpor, who healeth all our diseases and re- 
deemeth our life from destruction. 



2i6 A STORY FOR LITTLE NAN. 



A STORY FOR LITTLE NAN. 



" Please, auntie, tell me a story — a real true story 
about some naughty little boys or girls, won't you ? " 

"But, Nan dear, why do you want to hear about 
naughty children ? " 

" Oh, I don't know, 'cept I guess they're more in- 
teresting, don't you ? " 

So here is auntie's story for Nan, about 

A LITTLE GIRL WHO COULDN'T BELIEVE WHAT SHE 
didn't SEE. 

" Once upon a time, there was a round-faced little 
girl, with blue eyes and flaxen hair, and she was such 
a dumpling of a little girl that her aunties used to 
call her ' Mother Bunch.' 

"Well, this little girl's name was Mollie, or pretty 
near it anyhow, and her grandma and aunties used to 
borrow Mollie once in a while, for they had no little 
children at their houses, and they made a great pet 
of her, and Mollie loved them all dearly. 

" One time. Aunt Belle borrowed Mollie for a week 
or two, and I think she did have a nice time ! How 
surprised Uncle Jimmy would look every evening, 
when he came home from business, and Aunt Belle 
would tell him there was a little girl somewhere 
around ! 

" What a great time he would have, hunting all 



A STORY FOR LITTLE NAN. 217 

about the parlor, under the tables and in auntie's 
work-basket, and up the chimney and behind the 
doors, and at last Mollie would jump out from a little 
corner by the sofa. Then how he would catch her 
up in his arms, and sing : ' O Mollie has a beaming 
face ! ' in his funny way ! " 

" But, auntie ! " 

"Yes, Nan dear, I'm coming to it pretty soon. 
After Mollie had been at Uncle Jimmie's about a 
week, there came a storm that lasted several days 
and Mollie couldn't go out, and she got very tired of 
her playthings, and I dare say she missed the dear 
little brother and sisters, and her own dear papa and 
mamma at home. 

" But Aunt Belle was just as kind and indulgent 
as ever a good auntie was in the world, and had 
already bought Mollie more doll-babies than she 
would have had in a long while at home, for I 
am sorry to say that Mollie was like some other little 
girls I have heard of, and broke up her playthings 
and dollies very carelessly." 

"O auntie! you don't mean me, do you? You 
said the other day you thought I was improving my 
carelessness." 

Auntie laughed and said : " I think you are trying 
to be more careful, dear, and I hope Mollie tried, too. 
But she grew very cross that stormy morning, and 
when Auntie Belle said : 'Molly Polly, come here, in, 
auntie's room, and bring your dolly, and you can 
dress her up with some of these pretty ribbons,' I am 
sorry to say that Mollie cried out that she hadn't any 
dolly to play with. Every dolly hadn't any legs or 



^iS A STORY FOR LITTLE NAN: 

arms or something — and she did feel very * uncomfor- 
bottle ! ' Auntie asked her if she thought she would 
be happy if she had a new dolly. ' Oh ! yes/ Mollie 
thought ' she would, to be sure, but then she didn't 
think auntie would go out in the storm to get her 
one.' But Aunt Belle said, in her lively way: 'Be a 
good girl, little Mollie, and auntie '11 bring you a 
dolly.' 

"And Mollie watched auntie start off, with a big 
cloak and rubbers on, and an umbrella, and she 
saw her from the parlor window go splashing through 
the slush and the snow, until she turned the cor- 
ner of the street and Mollie couldn't see her any 
more. But she stood and watched, and watched, 
and watched, until she saw auntie's umbrella bobbing 
up and down as she came near the house. But, O 
dear ! Mollie didn't see any dolly ! The beautiful 
dolly she had been thinking of until she thought she 
knew just how it would look, when auntie should hold 
it up for her to see it under the umbrella. 

" When auntie came to the door and the servant 
let her in, Mollie stood still for a moment waiting to 
^ee the dolly, and then she burst out in a naughty, 
passionate cry : ' O dear, you said you'd bring me a 
-dolly, and you haven't got it. O dear ! O dear ! ' 

" Auntie said : ' Why, Mollie ! is this little Mollie ? ' 
And the servant took the wet cloak and rubbers 
away, and auntie drew the little girl into the parlor 
and said : ' Doesn't auntie keep her promises, Mollie? 
Auntie said she would bring you a dolly, and here it 
is,' drawing it out of her pocket where she had put it 



A STORY FOR LITTLE NAN. 219 

to keep it all safe and diy ! Oh, how ashamed and 
sorry little Mollie was ! " 

" My ! Yes. I should think so," says Nan. " She 
was a' real naughty little girl, wasn't she, auntie? 
And what kind of a dolly was it ? " 

" Well, I don't think I could tell you very much 
about it, but it was just the kind Mollie wanted, and 
I have heard she was very happy with it, and loved 
her kind auntie very much for going all through the 
storm to get it for her." 

"Yes!" said Nan. "I'm glad she wasn't an un- 
grateful little girl, aren't you ? " 

" Yes, dear, and now, Nan, you see if Mollie had 
believed her auntie, believed her very hard, even 
when she couldn't see the dolly, she wouldn't have 
been so naughty to her kind auntie that rainy day. 
And that reminds me. Nan, of a little verse I want 
you to think of, when you remember this story about 
Mollie and her auntie. Say it after me, dear : ' He 
is faithful that promised.' " 

Nan repeated it two or three times, until she knew 
it perfectly. 

" And now, Nan," said her auntie, " God wants us 
to believe we shall have what He promises us, even 
when we don't see the good thing. Do you under- 
stand me, dear ! " 

"Yes'm, I guess so," said Nan slowly. "The 
dolly was there all the while under her auntie's^ cloak, 
so as not to be spoiled, wasn't it ? And her auntie 
meant all the time to give it to her, didn't she ? I 
think I know what you mean about the verse, auntie. 



220 A STORY FOR LITTLE NAN. 

It's like the doll in the pocket, isn't it? But was 
Mollie always good afterwards, auntie ? " 

" I'm afraid not, dear." 

" Then won't you tell me all the naughty things 
she ever did, please, auntie ? " 

" O my ! No indeed, I couldn't possibly ; besides, 
how do you suppose I should know of all the naughty 
things she did ? " 

"Well!" said Nan, "I'm glad she did that 
naughty thing, anyhow, and you knew about it, so 
you could tell me, for I do love stories about bad lit- 
tle boys and girls," added she, with a sigh. 



PRAYER-MEETING VARNISH. 221 



PRAYER-MEETING VARNISH. 



It was a fine moonlight evening. Harry Holland 
and his friend, Phil Washburne, partners in " House 
Decorating, — Wood-tiling a specialty/' passed out of 
the lecture-room of the Chestnut Avenue church, and 
walked toward their respective homes, arm in arm. 
For a few moments, there was silence, and then Phil, 
with an impatient gesture, burst out vehemently : 

"I say, Harry, tell me honestly— is the trouble 
with these meetings, or with 7ne ? Can you like them, 
get help from them ? If you do, I reckon it's on the 
principle of the old Scotch woman who ' thanked the 
Lord she enjoyed vera puir health.' I've been four 
times since I came back, and every time I go away dis- 
couraged, and far more in doubt than I went. Twice, 
Elder Brown has warned young Christians against 
being too happy— has told them they needn't expect 
to be kept from sin, but they must trust the Lord to 
pull them out of the pit when they fall into it. Then 
Elder Brace always declares himself a poor cumberer 
of the ground ; but somehow it seems to me he doesn't 
go to work to do anything else. Two or three times 
you, Hal, and some one or two others, have spoken 
of God's promises and Christ's fullness. Do you 
really suppose any poor sinner, straying into that 
meeting to-night, would have been likely to learn of 



222 PRAYER-MEETING VARNISH. 

Christ as a present Saviour from sin, a Friend, a 
Brother ? " 

•* I am afraid not," owned Harry, sadly, " except 
for old Sam's prayer." 

" Yes, that's so. That was genuine prayer, humble 
and childlike. But, Hal, this is a vital matter to me," 
added Phil, earnestly ; " I expected to unite with the 
church next communion. If I should do so, I should 
feel bound to attend the prayer-meeting, and the 
plain truth is, I don't want to." 

"I understand just how you feel, Phil, but I don't, 
think this stumbling-block should hinder your con- 
fessing Christ. I acknowledge I generally go from a 
sheer sense of duty, often with my head full of busi- 
ness, and of course I am not ready to receive spiritual 
benefit, — the more shame to me." 

" Harry," exclaimed Phil, earnestly, " I don't in 
the least believe those elders and deacons conscious 
hypocrites. I have seen most of them in their stores 
and factories, and know they are leading upright 
Christian lives, in the face of temptation. Yet I tell 
you, when Wednesday night comes around I am 
inclined to think their religion a sham, for there's, 
such an evident veneering and varnishing, — such a 
covering up and hiding the solid truth, that it seems 
like poor stuff after all. It's dreadful to feel so, I 
know, and makes me very much doubt whether I 
can be a Christian at all," added he sadly. 

Harry Holland tightened his hold on his friend's 
arm, and answered, earnestly : " Indeed, Phil, I don't 
agree with you there. You're a very different fellow 
from what you were six months ago. Then, you 



PRAYER-MEETING VARiVISH. 223 

might have made a joke of it, but now it really hurts 
your heart, I know." 

" Well, that's a fact," said Phil, simply, while Harry 
continued : 

" I believe these meetings are a kind of sop to our 
consciences, Phil, for we are in a very dead-and-alive 
state." 

" I couldn't help thinking," said Phil, thoughtfully, 
" how astonished those people to-night would be, if 
they could be carried off a thousand miles, and be 
dropped down in the middle of a prayer-meeting at 
Gordon." 

" Do tell me about those meetings, Phil. I wanted 
to ask you about them when Sam Fletcher interrupted 
us the other evening. How did they differ from 
ours } " 

" I suppose it was the spirit, more than anything 
else, though the manner had something to do with it, 
too. They were so much more social and informal 
— more like a family gathering, you know. I don't 
believe I can give you any just idea of them, though 
I think I remember every word of the first one. It 
was then that I got a message straight from God." 

" Do tell me, Phil," said Harry, warmly. 

" Well, you know, Harry, I went out there to pick 
up some notions for our business here, and went to 
Gordon to see my mother's cousin. When I recall 
the welcome his wife and he gave me, — the warm- 
hearted, wise, fatherly interest he took in me from 
the first, — the way he remembered me at worship, 
just as though I were his own son come home, — I real- 
ize what that means : ' Thou preventest me with Thy 



224 PRAYER-MEETING VARNISH. 

goodness/ — going before me and making ready the 
best things. But that wasn't the prayer-meeting; 
only it was my preparation for it, I honestly believe. 

"Well, they took it for granted I was going 
Avith them, when Wednesday evening came ; and of 
course I went, but I did wonder that they seemed so 
glad to go. And that fact struck me about every one 
who came into that upper-room. They seemed to 
expect some good, and weren't a bit stiff, but looked 
as cheerful as Cousin Ned and his wife. The minis- 
ter who conducted the meeting was a stranger, a visi- 
tor there. He told them this meeting belonged to 
them — he shared it, as any other Christian present. 
He hoped all would take part, either by prayer or 
singing, or repeating some message from God ; and 
reminded them they had a right to claim His promise 
that, * His word should not return unto Him void.' 
And then he prayed, so fervently, that each heart 
might be open to receive the baptism of the Spirit. 
I felt then that this was seeking the Lord with a whole 
heart, worshipping Him in spirit and in truth. 

" Then they sang several hymns : ' I need Thee every 
hour,' and 'Just as I am,' and 'Still there's more to 
follow.' While we were singing, there was a slight 
stir, and a lady dressed in white was led by an attend- 
ant to a chair in front of us. When I saw she was 
blind, I remembered my cousin's mention of a friend 
of theirs who had recently lost her sight under most 
trying circumstances, through improper medical treat- 
ment of her own husband." 

"Pretty tough," said Harry Holland. 

^' Then there were one or two very brief prayers, and 



PRAYER-MEETING VARNISH. 225 

next, Harry, that blind lady spoke. Well, you know 
I had been brought up to think such a performance 
altogether queer and out of the way. But, do you 
know, it didn't seem a bit strange there. And it 
came into my head, — or my heart :. " Why shouldn't 
Christians have some meetings as simple and infor- 
mal as this ? " 

" What did she say .? " asked Harry, a little inquis- 
itively. 

" Oh ! she told them she was so thankful to meet 
them again, after these strange six months — in which 
God had smitten her. She thanked them warmly for 
their sympathy and kindness, which had helped her 
far more than they could guess. Then she begged 
them to pray that she might not dishonor God in this 
trouble. The hardest part of it had been that some- 
times she was tempted to think this was the Devil's 
work, not God's. ' Anything but that,' she ex- 
claimed ; ' Pray that I may not mistake my Father's 
hand in the dark ! ' Then there were some earnest 
prayers for her, and afterward, almost every one 
present repeated a verse from the Bible." 

" That's not a bad notion, Phil. I wonder if we 
couldn't suggest that some time." 

*' Well, most of the verses were familiar ones, but 
some of them came with a power I had never before 
felt. After several had been repeated, referring to 
Christ's free salvation, some one said, with emphasis : 
' He shall save His people from their sins ; ' and then 
followed : ' Sin shall not have dominion over you, for 
ye are not under the law but under grace.' 

" Just then, a splendid-looking man, perhaps thirty- 



226 PRAYER-MEETING VARNISH. 

five years old, rose up and said, hurriedly : ' Friends, 
I know that's in the Bible, but I want to know 
whether it's true, really true to any of you in this 
life. Most of you know me. You know I've a 
quick temper and an ugly tongue, and, that if I don't 
actually swear when I'm angry, it's mighty near it. 
You know all that, but you don't know, any of you, 
how hard I have prayed and fought against this be- 
setting sin. Easily besetting ! Yes, indeed. I've 
traveled that road over so often, I'm sick and tired 
of it — Repent, confess, try again, and Sin again / I 
don't seem to make any headway against it, and the 
promises of help in time of need seem sort of hollow. 
It's dreadful to say so, but ifs worse to feel. I'm 
nothing but a stumbling block, and a disgrace. I've 
just about made up my mind to quit. I can't bridle 
my tongue, and so my religion is vain.' Then he sat 
down." 

" Well } " asked Harry, eagerly. 

" A kind-looking white-haired old man got up and, 
turning to him, said : * Dear brother, if you're sick 
and tired of sinning, that is where God wants you to 
be. But suppose you just quit thinking your tongue 
is your own. Give it up, for good and all, to the 
Lord that bought you, body and soul. It's part of 
the temple of the Holy Ghost. Tell that to God, 
and beg the Holy Ghost to take care of it. Himself. 
Then walk humbly before God, brother, and believe 
Him. He'll do it, for His own name's sake. I've 
been through it all, and mine was a drunkard's 
thirst.' 

" Then they sat down together, and some one 



PRAYER-MEETING VARNISH. 227 

prayed. After that, were some more hymns, and 
then, Hal, came God's message to me. Somehow, 
all through the meeting my hardness of heart and 
unbelief had been breaking down, and then — It 
was the last verse my mother taught me before she 
died," said Phil, huskily. " I had been learning the 
15th chapter of Luke, but did not get any further 
than that verse : ' And when he had spent all, there 
arose a mighty famine in that land, and he began to be 
in want.'' Harry, it was like a sword thrust in my 
heart. That last summer evening with my mother 
came up before me ; her words, her very voice 
sounded in my ear — the pleading, tender tone, in 
which she told me of the hunger of heart and soul 
which God uses to draw us back to His arms. How 
she prayed for me, and gave me up, heart, soul and 
body to God, to use as He pleased, for Christ's 
sake ! " 

Phil stopped short, and Harry said, gently : " I 
don't wonder you feel so about Prayer-meetings, Phil. 
Let us ask God to show His people here how to come 
to Him and get His blessing." 

" Suppose," said Phil slowly, " we stop for a while, 
ever}7 evening in our shop, with any other fellows who 
would like to, and have a meeting to ask God about 
the Wednesday evening meetings." 

"All right," answered Harry, warmly. And so 
they did. 



2 28 ENGLAND AT GARFIELD'S GRAVE. 



ENGLAND AT GARFIELD'S GRAVE. 



[London, September, 1881.] 

In this time of our national sorrow, we have grown 
very near to the great, tender-hearted people among 
whom we live. You know, long before this, with what 
homage and honor to our fallen hero, with what spon- 
taneous sympath}^ and tenderness, from the Queen 
down to the roughest fishermen, our heavy sorrow has 
been shared by these brothers across the sea. 

And since it is sweet and fitting to die for our 
country, as he whom we mourn has done, it is surely 
sweet and fitting that we love and honor those who 
have watched with us through these eighty days of 
hope and fear, and now clasp hands in hearty and 
brotherly tenderness across his grave. 

This thought, as you may suppose, has found utter- 
ance in many ways during these days of sadness. 
One said, on the street the other evening, with a 
quaint mixture of regret and satisfaction : " Well, it's 
a pity, but we never can have a chance to return the 
sympathy of these English people, for they haven't 
any man in England like him ! " Another said, 
with a hearty emphasis : " We never, never can fight 
England again — we never could forget this ! " We 
smile with tolerant good humor at the big way in which 
these older brothers of ours appropriate and recog- 



ENGLAND AT GARFIELD'S GRAVE. 229 

nize as their own those personal characteristics which 
gave our dead President such strong and lasting hold 
on the hearts of our people. It is only another way 
of saying they love us ! We have largely outgrown, 
during these fe\v sad months, that sensitiveness and 
restiveness under English comment which arose from 
imperfect sympathy between the two great nations ; 
and they, in words and deeds, are saying to us: 
" England and America, at peace forever, ready to 
work for God and for the world ! " 

Of the great meeting in Exeter Hall, on Saturday, 
Sept. 24th, you have little need to hear fuller reports. 
The building was crowded long before the hour ap- 
pointed. Words strong and sweet and simple were 
those in which our poet ambassador spoke of the sad 
errand for which we had gathered together. Not for 
praise, for in all praise there is a touch of patronage, 
as from the higher to the lower, but for honor— \iO'CiOx 
to the noble life and worthy death of our country's 
heroic son ; and to-express our sympathy with those 
who were smitten the sorest by this heavy stroke. 

He said, alluding to the womanly devotedness of 
Mrs. Garfield, and the manner in which the whole 
world's heart had been touched by it : " But to Ameri- 
cans everywhere it comes home with a pang of 
mingled sorrow, pride and unspeakable domestic 
tenderness that none but ourselves can feel." And 
again, speaking of those memorable eighty days: 
" The one touch of nature that makes the whole world 
kin is a touch of heroism ; our sympathy with which 
dignifies and ennobles." " He was no ordinary man 



230 ENGLAND AT GARFIELD'S GRAVE, 

-vvho could die well daily for eleven agonizing weeks, 
and of whom it could be said at last : 

" ' He nothing common did, or mean, 
Upon tliat memorable scene.' 

"The dignity, the patience, the self-restraint, the 
thoughtfulness for others, the serene valor which he 
showed under circumstances so disheartening, and 
amid the wrecks of hopes so splendid, are a posses- 
sion and a stimulus to his countrymen forever." 

I think I have always been heartily thankful for 
my American birthright j but it grew more precious 
every moment, as we traveled in thought to that 
" blessed country " across the sea, the land of the lov- 
ing and the leal, and we realized, indeed, as Mr. Lowell 
grandly said of the soil where our hero is resting : 
" Since such men are made out of it, it is good to be 
born upon, good to live on, good to die for, and good 
to be buried in ! " 

After Mr. Lowell, others spoke, in words less 
scholarly, but none the less true. and tender. You, 
who know so well what manner of man our President 
was, do not need the record given on this side of the 
sea. 

When Bishop Simpson referred to the Queen's 
message to Mrs. Garfield " on behalf of her and her 
people," saying, " God bless the Queen," the whole 
multitude arose and cheered. It would have seemed 
unfitting on such an occasion, if it had not been so 
natural and spontaneous. It was an impulsive recog- 
nition of the tender, womanly words which have fallen 
during these sad weeks and months on the sore 



ENGLAND AT GARFIELD'S GRAVE, 231 

heart of the nation, like the touch of a cool hand on 
a throbbing brow. 

There is no danger of our caring too much for 
the love and good-will which prompted those kindly 
words. With the fading flowers on that far-off grave, 
they shall rise forever as a Mizpeh between the 
nations. The reverent love which we give to those 
we hold most noble and most dear is hers to-day, 
whom for years we have held in high honor as a true 
mother and wife, and guileless Christian woman. 

Victoria Regina, Queen of the greatest empire in 
the world, she has this day a grander empire in the 
hearts her womanly sympathy has won for her, in that 
"blessed country" across the sea! 

One circumstance in connection with the memorial 
services here touched us greatly. In the Sunday 
afternoon service at St. Paul's, on the 25th, Men- 
delssohn's funeral march was the voluntary. Dr. 
Stainer played the Dead March in Saul with wonder- 
ful beauty of expression ; but the memorable circum- 
stance was the choice of two anthems composed by 
Sir John Goss, which had never been sung in the 
cathedral since the death of the Prince Consort, 
until they were sung over our President. The 
music, we are told, was exquisite. The words were 
from David's lament over Abner : " And the king 
said to all the people that were with him : * Rend 
your clothes and gird you with sackcloth and mourn.' 
And the king himself followed the bier, and they 
buried him. And the king lifted up his voice and 
wept at the grave, and all the people wept. And the 
king said unto his servants : ' Know ye not that 



232 E.VGLAA'D AT GARFIELD'S GRAVE. 

there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in 
Israel ? ' " 

The words, with which the Canon in residence 
prefaced his sermon, were very earnest and beautiful. 
At the close he said : " I do not mean to dwell on 
these things, yet standing as I do now in the midst 
of the greatest church in the greatest city of the 
world, I feel sure that I am interpreting the feelings 
of all who hear me, when I say that we do most 
heartily sympathize in the public sorrow of the great 
nation, our brethren lamenting as with one heart and 
voice the loss of an honored and loved ruler, cut off 
in so strange and sad a way by such an inscrutable 
visitation. ... As for him, the souls of the righteous 
are in the hand of God, and there shall no torment 
touch them . . . they are in peace." 

Monday afternoon, at 3 o'clock, there was a me- 
morial service at Westminster Abbey, 

On the previous afternoon, Canon Duckworth, the 
Canon in residence (you know Dr. Beasley has not 
yet been installed as Dean in Dr. Stanley's stead), 
paid a noble and beautiful tribute to the memory of 
Garfield, whom he associated, as so many naturally 
do, with our martyred Lincoln. After repeating the 
grand words of Lincoln at the consecration of 
the cemetery at Gettysburgh, Canon Duckworth said : 
" Who could doubt that the cause, for which the 
speaker of those burning words died, was reinforced 
now and re-consecrated by a new sacrifice ? The 
American people was the richer this day, in all that 
could dignify national life, for Garfield's heroic dying." 

And, alluding to our great man's wistful question, 



ENGLAND AT GARFIELD'S GRAVE. 233 

'' Do you think my name will have a place in human 
history?" and the reply of one who spoke for the 
whole world in his answer, ''' Yes, and a grander one 
in the hearts of men," Canon Duckworth truly said : 
*' No sweeter promise ever fell upon a ruler's dying 
ears; no safer prediction ever passed mortal lips. 
He was gone hence, and would be seen no more, but 
his works followed him." 

But I must make mention now of the Monday 
memorial service. Parts of the English burial ser- 
vice were read while our hearts bridged the thousands 
of miles between us and the far-away burial place 
beside Lake Erie. The music was very grand and 
beautiful. 

The dirge composed by Sir John Goss for the 
funeral of the Duke of Wellington was sung, and then 
Dr. Budge played the Dead March in Saul. It was 
very thrilling, and unspeakably suggestive to us 
strangers from that "blessed country" across the 
sea. The grand wailing music in that beautiful old 
cathedral, so filled with associations, so rich in 
memorials in honor of the good and great ! It was 
very precious to us, to be sure that the tribute of 
glory and honor rendered by the whole civilized 
world—of which the service in that Walhalla was a 
fitting type— was given to the noble, heroic goodness, 
the purity, unselfishness, bravery and patience of one 
who loved and trusted and honored our Lord and 
Saviour Jesus Christ. And the thought would come 
up, how the Lord, who knoweth the hearts, had hon- 
ored the two great men, our Presidents, whom He 
yet had permitted to fall by the hands of the wicked. 



234 ENGLAND AT GARFIELD'S GRAVE. 

The two men were those who were in public and 
in private life emphatically without guile, and whose 
utterances, '' I never yet could hate anybody," and, 
^' With charity towards all, with malice towards none," 
are human paraphrases of the angels' song at Beth- 
lehem : 

" Peace on earth, good-will toward men." 

But while I was thinking, the grand music from the 
Messiah, " I know that my Redeemer liveth,"— the 
promise of the resurrection glory, sounded through 
the numberless arches, and fell upon our hearts sad 
and heavy for our loss, with the glad assurance of 
" beauty for ashes, joy for mourning and the garment 
of praise for the spirit of heaviness," for " they which 
sleep in Jesus will God bring with Him. So shall we 
ever be with the Lord ; wherefore comfort one 
another with these words." 

As we passed out with the dense throng, the bells 
began to toll. The chimes of Westminster, — " Big 
Ben " sounding deepest among them, — were caught 
up and echoed by peals from other churches. But 
there are no tolling bells in that fair City whose 
builder and maker is God. The chimes of earth 
which tell of universal brotherhood, ringing in the 
promise of the Millennial Peace, are echoed in 
heaven with the peals of everlasting gladness, " for 
the former things are passed away." 

Monday evening, at half past six, some of our 
party went to the memorial service at Rev, Newman 
Hall's, and others to the church of St. Martin-in-the- 
Fields, where the Archbishop of Canterbury held a 
memorial service, preaching an appropriate sermon. 



ENGLAND AT GARFIELD'S GRAVE. 235 

At all of the services in connection with the death 
of our President we, as Americans, were surprised at 
the crowded buildings. We did not realize until 
then how almost national was the sorrow of the Eng- 
lish people. It was no wonder to us that all Ameri- 
cans should be present at such special services, 
but, as at St. Martin-in-the-Fields, so in the other 
churches, the mourning badges of the Americans did 
not secure the seats freely offered to them in the pub- 
lic papers. But we were more than recompensed for 
the loss of reserved seats by the hearty sympathy and 
recognition of mutual loss given by these English 
brothers. The sermon of Archbishop Tait, while it 
was scholarly, simple and noble, brought home to my 
consciousness the fact that, until these last few 
months, the English people, nay, even the very high- 
est in ecclesiastical position, one of the Queen's 
councillors, a man of large heart and cultured mind, 
had little acquaintance with the noblest, most pure 
and chivalrous side of our American people. It is a 
wonder to them that such a grand, heroic nature 
should have developed unknown to them. But we 
can scarcely wonder, remembering how with our- 
selves it needed these months to reveal our hero to 
us, aye more, he needed the crucial test, the fiery 
ordeal to prove the true man he was. 

After reviewing the life of Garfield, and his steady 
rise by self-restraint, energy and courage, through 
changes and by stepping-stones undreamt of on this 
side "of the Atlantic, he said : " All this I must say 
was to most of us quite new. It opened up a picture 
of manhood, such as in this country we were little ac- 



236 ENGLAND AT GARFIELD'S GRAVE. 

quainted with, and no wonder that our affections 
were drawn forth, and w^e felt that it was no common 
man that the civilized world had lost. But then 
comes the nobler and better lesson." 

The Archbishop spoke nobly and beautifully of 
the evidence of the Christian principle and faith in 
the life of Garfield, though apparently knowing little 
of facts in his religious life that are so familiar to us, 
and closed with a most earnest and eloquent appeal 
to us all, to be true to the trust committed to us 
above all other nations of the world, " to carry 
through the boundaries of the human race a civiliza- 
tion founded upon Christianity." He spoke of that 
w^hich would make us truly one — " individual, family, 
social or political life must all have its current in the 
gospel of Jesus Christ." 

No one could help noticing in how many memorial 
services the hymn so loved by our President was 
sung. Church of England, Congregational, Presby- 
terian, Wesleyan, Independent, sung alike, " Nearer 
my God to Thee." 

At the close of the services in St. Martin-in-the- 
Fields (which for those who do not know London, we 
might say is on Trafalgar Square and far away from 
the fields of to-day) the beautiful hymo from the 
Prayer Book was sung, beginning: 

" Now the laborer's task is o'er, 

Now the battle day is past, 
Now upon the further shore 

Lands the voyager at last. 
Father, in Thy gracious keeping, 
Leave we now Thy servant sleeping." 



ENGLAND AT GARFIELD'S GRAVE. 237 

The words lingered in our hearts while the organ 
sounded to the Dead March in Saul, and we passed 
out into the moonlight, thinking how that same moon 
looks down on that far-off grave in the West. It was 
good to remember the grand old words which we had 
sung at the beginning of the service : 

" O God, our help in ages past, 
Our hope for years to come, 
Be Thou our guard while troubles last, 
And our eternal home." 

As we walked slowly by the beautiful Trafalgar 
Square, Landseer's lions, the Wellington column and 
Havelock's monument, those Scriptures in bronze 
and stone spoke in mute eloquence of the grandeur, 
bravery and goodness of this great English people. 
God bless them ! They loved our hero and mourned 
with us in our great sorrow. May they rejoice with 
us in the Great Day when their Lord and ours shall 
come unto His own again, gathering those who love 
Him out of all kindreds and tongues and peoples, 
when there shall be one flock and one shepherd for- 
evermore. 



238 GUY FAWKES' DAY. 



GUY FAWKES' DAY. 



(London, November, 1S81.) 

November in London is anything but a cheerful 
month. Dull skies prevail, even when the sun is not 
entirely hidden by yellow fogs. A general leaden hue 
steals the beauty from the fairest scene, making it 
very easy to believe, for the present, in "the light 
that never was on sea or shore." 

But there are happy exceptions even to the dreari- 
ness of the "melancholy days," when the sun's round 
face looks like a good-natured friend returning 
from a journey, and Hyde Park, despite its leafless 
trees, is fairly cheerful in the sunshine, and makes 
the best of it; when children and nursemaids, red- 
coats and policemen, fine carriages with languid ladies 
and lazy men, again assemble to welcome the sudden 
sunny rift in the clouds. 

One of these bright gleams fell this year on Guy 
Fawkes' Day, November 5th. It seems to us Amer- 
icans a singular instance of British conservatism that 
the name of one of a number of conspirators should 
thus be immortalized, even though it be by hooting, 
effigies and general nonsense. Imagine the celebra- 
tion of a day in America, year after year and century 
after century, in ages to come, in perpetuation of the 
name and memory of Benedict Arnold, Wilkes Booth 



GUY FAIVKES' DAY. 239 

or Guiteau. " No," say we, the younger nation ; " let 
us remember and celebrate deeds and aims that were 
noble and pure, and let the dark memories lie still in 
the silence of the grave." But Guy Fawkes' Day 
was kept, we are told, as a national thanksgiving for 
the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot, and the deliv- 
erance of Protestant England from the evil plans of 
the Roman Catholic party. 

On the morning of the fifth, before ten o'clock, I 
met two or three groups of street gamins with their 
Guys, horrible-looking creatures, dressed in rags and 
jags, wearing hideous red masks. 

One of these interesting spectacles on Wigmore 
street was drawn in a hand-cart by a hooting crowd, 
who recited some doggerel which 1 tried to make out, 
but in vain. It was something about the Pope, and 
probably a relic of the old tradition connecting the 
burning of a wax effigy with the death of the person 
represented by the figure. One needs to have some 
pennies in the pocket on such a walk, for swift as 
thought the manager of the show, seeing me a block 
away, darted across the street with a request for 
something to pay expenses and put down Popery t 
Primrose Hill, an open knoll northwest of Regent's 
Park, is a favorite place for the burning of these 
many Guys, with accompaniment of bonfires and fire- 
works on the night of the fifth. If ever such barbar- 
ous fashion of rejoicing is suitable, it would seem 
that the use of gunpowder on this occasion has 
some poetical fitness. 

It may not be known to some of our readers that,, 
ever since the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot be- 



240 GC^V FA^Ar£S' £>AV. 

fore the meeting of Parliament in 1605, the cellars of 
the Parliament House are officially searched and 
pronounced free of traitors and fagots before the 
meeting opens. Such a survival of an ancient warn- 
ing shows the steady-going, solid character of our 
English cousins. In these days of dynamite and 
fiery Irish agitators, Nihilists and Guiteaux, it seems 
a sensible precaution at least. 

But the day is not given up exclusively to the 
memory of the past. 

At the Alexandra Palace — a sort of rival of the 
Crystal Palace at Sydenham — on the evening of the 
fifth, the exhibition for the popular amusement this 
year comprised thirty or forty Guys, representing and 
bearing the names of various public characters of the 
present day, whose supposed demerits might be fitly 
expiated by a harmless burning at the stake. Among 
the subjects were Gladstone, in full Highland cos- 
tume, pulling the wires of a puppet labeled " Land 
Bill," till it danced with frantic gestures, while under 
the chieftain's feet were fragments suggestive of Par- 
nell and Treason ; then the figure of a burly blus- 
terer repudiating Parliamentary oaths ; the inevitable 
Irish trio with dynamite and swagger; Temple Bar 
memorial with its " unspeakable " Griffin, hideous 
enough to be safe without the protection of two solid 
metropolitan policemen mounting guard beside it ; 
and, in the direction of the fine arts, a pair of figures, 
a gardener with eyeglass and sun-flower button-hole 
bouquet, watering lilies and chrysanthemums from a 
Japanese teapot, while a young lady of sweet sixty 
stands by, simpering sillily — quite too totally aesthetic 
for anything but a pair of Guys ! 



GIFFORD'S WIFE. 241 



GIFFORD'S WIFE. 



" Gifford's wife very low, wants to see you. I 

will meet you at 42d St., 3:20 train. 

F. M.' 

This was the telegram Frank sent to me at noon, 
one October day. I packed my satchel, sent Jane 
to ask Miss Hunter to let the children come home 
from school, took a hurried lunch, and gave the usual 
directions to Sally, about what she must do, in case 
of sickness, accident, fire, or company, while Frank 
and I were absent. 

Ruth's little heart was very full, for I think she 
loved Marian almost as dearly as I did. But she be- 
haved like a real little woman, choked down her 
tears, when she bade me good-bye, and said : " Oh ! I 
am so glad that we came back before dear cousin 
Marian got so dreadfully sick." Tom,— bless his 
little heart, — promised to be a good boy, and take 
care of Ruthie and Jane, and not be cross to Sallie ! 
Then came a few minutes in the horse-car, half an 
hour on the boat, and a long, slow ride up to Forty- 
second street. 

How I longed and yet dreaded to see my dear 
Marian again ! I had not seen her since she and 
Gifford bade us good-bye on the steamer, the after- 
noon we sailed, four months before. 
16 



242 GIFFORD'S WIFE. 

There had been a singular reticence about herself^ 
in all her letters to me, and Gifford's to Frank were 
not much more satisfactory. One sentence in his 
last letter had troubled me a good deal : " As for 
May, one would think she had taken a vow against 
ease and slumber. She does not seem to rest a 
moment, night or day." 

" Never a word said she ! 
She made no moan, 
She gave no groan. 
But she died right willingly! " 

These words kept ringing in my ears, as I remem- 
bered how she had sung them a few months before. 
It was an old ballad Gifford had picked up some- 
where, and brought home while Frank and I were 
visiting them. I believe Marian would rather have 
gone into a burning house, than have sung that song. 
But when her husband said, in his nonchalant way : 
"Sing that doleful ditty I brought you yesterday, 
Marian, if you please," she took up the music, say- 
ing, lightly : " You see, Forrest's gray hairs and senti- 
ment are creeping on together." But how she sang 
it ! One verse runs : 

" He vowed on his bended knee. 
Ah ! light is a lover's oath I 
She gave him her life and troth, 
— And she died right willingly ! " 

I wondered then, whether Forrest Gifford was cruel 
as well as careless. Such a blithe, merry, dancing girl 
as Marian was, five years before, with beautiful dark 
eyes, and such a soft, lovely color coming and going 
in her cheeks! It was a short acquaintance and 



GIFFORD'S WIFE. 243 

courtship. Marian was traveling with her aunt, Mrs. 
Barrett, the only relative she had in the world except 
Frank, who is a far-away cousin on her mother's 
side. 

I was always glad that Frank did not give Forrest 
Gifford a letter of introduction to Mrs. Barrett. I 
don't know who introduced him, but Mrs. Barrett 
asked Mr. Gifford to join their party in Switzerland. 
He was a man of culture, position and wealth. This 
was the sum of Mrs. Barrett's requirements. He was 
a brilliant talker, and was considered fascinating. / 
always thought him an egotist, without his peer among 
men, — and only refrained from sarcastic speeches to 
him because he was Frank's friend. But then, I 
never had any patience with carpet knights and 
society idols. 

Well, he fascinated my dear Marian most com- 
pletely. She never dreamed, poor child, that he 
could be less devoted and tender than he showed 
himself in the romantic scenes where he wooed and 
won her. They were married at the American 
Chapel in Paris, and two months afterwards Mrs. 
Barrett died. Gifford and Marian came home in the 
spring, and bought a charming little place on the 
Hudson, expecting to spend their winters in the city. 
Frank and I used to see them very often in those 
days. Gifford certainly was proud and fond of her for 
a while. He was proud of her beauty, and spirit, 
and grace, and seemed well content to be a hero, 
in her eyes. But that was long ago. 

Marian has never seemed like her old self since 
her baby died. No one had ever said a word about 



244 GIFFORD'S WIFE. 

it, but I was as sure as I wished to be, that Marian 
was not willingly absent from her sick boy the last 
night of his life. Gifford is just the sort of man to 
be annoyed by what he would consider foolish fond- 
ness and anxiety of a young mother about her baby. 
Our little girl, Marian's namesake, was very sick 
when Hugh was buried, and I did not see Marian 
until both dear little ones had been laid to rest. 
She never alluded to the circumstances of her baby's 
death, except that, when I was telling her of our little 
Marian's sufferings, and how the sight of her pain 
made me willing to let her go, she said, as if the 
words were wrung from her : " Oh, you were with 
her ! You did not leave her to die alone." I shall 
never forget the terrible anguish in her face, and her 
tone. 

We often spoke together of our babies who were 
gone out of our arms. Hugh was just beginning to 
walk, and to say a few words. He was a beautiful 
child, and very winsome. My baby was two months 
younger, and not as forward as Marian's boy. I 
think I was the only one to whom she ever spoke of 
her child. I am sure it was good for her to talk 
about him. The hard, set lines about her mouth 
always softened then. But I could not help noticing 
how her face grew stern whenever her husband made 
any allusion to their lost boy. I used to think it 
must be hard for' Gifford, for he did love his child, 
and was very proud of him. Marian seemed to hug 
her sorrow all the closer, when her husband tried to 
share it with her. Still it was something with which 



GIFFORD'S WIFE. 245 

not even a trusted friend could intermeddle, so I was 
sorry, — and kept still. 

One day, when we were alone, Marian took a little 
morocco-covered book from her desk and said : 
" Kitty, if anything should happen to me, I want you 
to have this little book ; will you remember ? " I 
knew well what it was, for Frank and I have one 
just like it, full of notes about our three dear children. 
Marian liked the notion very much, when she first 
saw ours long ago. I remember how bewilderingly 
pretty she looked when one day she showed me the 
book she had bought, as she said, — to write about 
her babies in. 

Well — well ! Frank met me at Forty-second street, 
and we went, up to Gernheim together. The pretty 
rose-covered stone cottage, — Marian used to call it 
her Bower of Bliss, — was lovely as ever, under the 
October sky. Every turn we took, up the winding 
path from the stile by the railroad, to the house on 
the hiU, brought back a vision of Marian's light figure 
beside us. An old rough-hewn seat, near the crest 
of the hill, was her watch-tower, her favorite place at 
sunset. Far down below, lay the broad, full river she 
had loved so well. The sun was only an hour high, 
but the long, level beams shot across the lawn and 
over the river, lighting up with some glints of gold 
the gray walls of the Palisades beyond. How often 
Marian and I had watched the light fade out of the 
sky, and the gray shadows fall on the same peaceful 
scene — and now ! 

Frank and I were very quiet, as we walked up to 
the house, for we both loved Marian ; and Frank, I 



246 GIFFORHS WIFE. 

think, loved Gifford too. They had pla3^ed together 
Avhen they were boys, had been class-mates in college, 
and somehow the old fellowship and association had 
kept Frank from despising Gifford as I did. Besides 
— my husband is a great deal better Christian than 1 
am, and believes that there is hope for even such 
careless, self-satisfied sinners as Gifford. We noticed 
that the carriage-drive was thickly strewn with straw, 
and, as we neared the house, we saw that the bell 
was muffled too. Gifford met us at the door. 

" Thank you so much for coming ; it is so good of 
you ! Please excuse my careless appearance, Mrs. 
Mason, I have been with Marian- for two nights, and 
feel rather knocked up." 

Indeed he looked so, and I fancied he had been 
crying. Well, I thought it was time he did ! With 
curious distinctness came up before me Frank's face 
as it looked, after he had watched by my bed eight 
days and nights, when they all said I must die. Did 
the two men who walked before me up the stairs, be- 
long to the same species ? 

Gifford told us that Marian's mind seemed to be 
wandering a good deal. " At times, she sings bits of 
songs, and counts, and talks to herself about little 
Hugh. She can't bear to have the nurse in the room 
with her ; so either Doctor Halleck, little Hester or 
I stay with her all the time. She hasn't slept for 
six nights. Halleck says, unless we can get her to 
sleep " — Frank grasped his hand, and said something 
which I did not hear, as they walked away to the 
window. Only I heard Gifford say distinctly, in that 



GIFFORD'S WIFE. 247 

soft voice of his : " That's the worst of it — if it were 
not my fault, I think I could stand it." 

They came back to me, and Gifford said : " I hope 
it will not be too painful for you, Mrs. Mason, 
Marian has asked for you so often to-day, in her in- 
tervals of consciousness. She is quiet now. I think 
she will know you. The doctor says, if she is in- 
clined to talk, we must let her. She recognized the 
physicians who consulted with Dr. Halleck, yes- 
terday, but they thought worse of her case than Hal- 
leck does." 

I could not speak, except to say it was my great 
wish to see Marian if it would not excite her. How 
strange the beautiful rooms seemed, without Marian 
to welcome us ! I went in with Gifford to see her. 
I never saw anything more beautiful than her face, as 
she lay there in the evening light. She saw me as 
we entered the room — " So glad — so glad ! " she said, 
caressing me in her old, loving way. " I am going 
to see my baby soon. Tell me about it — I can't think, 
my head aches so. He'll know me, up there, won't 
he, Kitty ? I don't want him to care more for the 
angels than for me." She looked at me wistfully, 
for a moment ; then a wild look came into her eyes, 
and she said : " No tears — no tears ! I don't cry 
any more. Dead people don't cry. I've been dead 
a good while. One — two — three — four — one — two — " 

Her husband knelt at the other side of the bed 
and held her hand against his face. " No, no ! May, 
you're not dead; you're not going to die. My 
little May Queen ! " He laid his hand caressingly 



.248 GIFFORD'S WIFE. 

on her beautiful hair. I wondered that they had not 
cut it off. 

" Who is it talks ? " said she looking right up in 
his face, without a shadow of recognition in her eyes. 
" Queen ! Queen ! " Then she burst out singing a 
little French song she had learned at school : 

" La Reine est morte. 
Vive la Reine ! " 

" Reigned in Jerusalem one year and eight months, 
and she died. Go on — what's next ? one — two — 
three — four — " 

It was pitiful beyond words, to see and hear her. 
A spasm of pain passed over Gifford's face. I was 
very sorry for him, and said : " Perhaps she would be 
quiet, if I stayed alone with her." 

" Thank you — perhaps. She does not seem to 
know me at all," said he, brokenly. " She asked to 
have you sing to her, — if you came in time, — and 
here are some books she wanted to have brought to 
her, so she might give them to you herself." 

Yes, she had remembered. One of them was the 
pretty, brown book she had spoken about, months 
before. 

Frank and Gifford went into the next room. I 
raised Marian up, so that her head might rest on my 
shoulder, and then I sang to her, very softly, old 
hymns we had often sung together, in Sabbath twi- 
lights, in that same pleasant room. It quieted my 
sad heart, and soon it seemed to quiet Marian too. 
She stopped that dreadful counting, and seemed to 
listen. Once she said : " Yes, it is j it is Kitty." 



GIFFORD'S WIFE. 249 

Then her eyes lost their bright glitter, and at last she 
fell asleep. 

Half an hour after, I heard Gifford speaking 
eagerly to the doctor in the hall. " She is asleep. 
You said there was a chance for her if she could 
sleep ! " 

I did not hear the doctor's answer, but my heart 
caught at the hope, and I prayed for her life as I had 
not dared to do before. The doctor came in, leaned 
over, and lightly touched her pulse. " Good, good ! 
Keep her asleep as long as you can. We'll have a 
fight for her yet." 

Frank took charge of the medicines to be given if 
she awoke, and then I coaxed him to take Gifford 
down with the doctor, and get their supper, while 
Hester, Marian's good little maid, stayed within call, 
in case I needed her. Frank brought up a cup of 
tea, and managed to hold it to my lips, without dis- 
turbing Marian. 

The fall twilight deepened in the room, and the 
night came on, and still she slept. Gifford came in 
and begged to stay. I said no, — that I would call 
him if he could do anything, or if Marian asked for 
him. 

" If she awakes, kiss her good-night for me, please, 
with my love," said he, humbly. 

" I will, certainly," said I. " God knows I am 
sorry for you now." He touched Marian's hand with 
his lips, but she did not stir. He went away with a 
stifled groan. 

There were no sounds in the house, except the 
ticking of the old clock in the hall, and the occa- 



250 GIFFORD'S WIFE. 

sional crackling of the open fire in the next room, 
where Frank was sitting. It was a beautiful night. 
Star after star shone through the window, and all my 
childish fancies, about their watchful eyes and friendly 
guidance, came thronging back to my heart. Bound 
as I was to one place, by the precious burden in my 
arms, my thoughts were all the freer in their range. 
Oh ! terrible mysteries of life, mysteries never to be 
understood, until, in the light of God, we know even 
as we are known. No wonder — human hope and cour- 
age fail, without the clasp of the only Hand, wise and 
warm and strong enough to lead through the dim, 
strange paths of life, through the dark gateway of 
death itself, unto the glorious light of the Life ever- 
lasting ! 

At last, I saw the pale gleam of the moonlight on 
the river, far away. Eleven o'clock ! The doctor 
came in, quietly. " Courage ! nothing could be bet- 
ter." 

Frank came in often, just to look at us. It was 
such a comfort to see his dear, good face ! Once he 
brought me a soft pillow to lean against. " I am 
afraid your back will be nearly broken, wifie mine," 
he said. 

" No fear, dear. I am really not much tired. I 
could bear it all night and day, to keep her asleep." 
Soon after, he brought me a cup of hot coffee. I 
don't think anything ever was more refreshing to me, 
for I began to feel a little chilly. 

Midnight, and still no change. Gifford's pale face 
was anxious enough to make me pitiful, when he 
came in, and looked sadly at Marian. 



GIFFORHS WIFE. 251 

" Sleeping still. Frank will tell you when she 
wakes. Do try to rest ! You may have a good deal 
of this kind of work yet." 

" I hope so — I hope so ! " said he, fervently. Poor 
fellow. He was not very explicit, but I knew what 
he meant, and liked him better for not trying to ex- 
plain himself. 

Again the doctor came in. " This sleep will save 
her life and her reason, too, I trust," he said, softly. 
I heard him tell Frank that he would stay in the 
library until six o'clock, and that he must call him, 
if there were any change. Then all was quiet again. 

At last, the moonlight stole in, through one of the 
windows, lighting up a favorite picture of Marian's. 
It was a full-length figure, in a palmer's dress of 
black, with a lavender-colored cape, a girdle with 
scrip and scollop shell, a staff in one hand, in the 
other a palm, and over his head a scroll bearing the 

words : 

*' In silentio et in spe 
Erit fortitude tua." 

According to the Roman Catholic legend, these 
were the dying words of the holy pilgrim martyr, 
San Juan de Mycenae. The grand, pure face, always 
reminded me of Dante's. It was sweet and strong 
enough for one belonging to " the noble army of mar- 
tyrs." I thought of the many talks we had had, 
Marian and I, over that picture and the legend. 

When the first shiver of the coming dawn stirred 
the trees, Marian woke with a frightened cry. 

" May, darling, don't be afraid. It's all right, dear. 
Lie down again and sleep." She had started up, with 



252 GIFFORD'S WIFE. 

a strange look in her eyes, but when I spoke, she 
turned toward me, and said, just like herself: "O 
Kitty! how tired you must be, dear! Let me lie 
down on the pillows, please, and you lie down too 
and rest." How thankfully I heard her, no word can 
tell. I slipped a cool pillow under her head, and 
leaning over her I said, slowly : " Forrest asked me 
to bid you good-night for him, dear. He left a kiss 
on this hand, with his love." 

Her face quivered. She raised the hand he had 
kissed to her lips, and said, fervently : " Thank you, 
Kitty. Tell him please, I shall rest well now." Her 
lips moved and I heard her say, brokenly: "Our 
Father — forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debt- 
ors." Then she slept again. 

The doctor stood at the door, but signed to me 
that he would not come in. I saw by his face, that 
he thought the crisis was past safely for Marian. 
Frank went to tell Gifford her words, and Doctor 
Halleck came back to me after a few minutes, and 
told me my husband wanted me, and that he wished 
to watch Marian for a while himself. I rather sus- 
pected it was a ruse on the part of the kind old 
doctor, to get me out of the room, and make me rest. 
But I was content to go, since Marian still slept, and 
I could do no good. 

Frank and Gifford were together in the library. 
They made as much of me as if I had been a heroine. 
Being a very matter-of-fact, common-place sort of a 
person, I suggested that we should have something 
to eat. Gilford's thoughtfulness had already provided 
coffee, boiled eggs and sandwiches. Doctor Halleck 



GIFFORD'S WIFE. 253 

had had his lunch before he took my place with 
the invalid. I don't believe there were three more 
thankful people in the world, than we were, that early 

morning. 

Frank made me lie down on the sofa in the library, 
and Gilford and he talked. They walked up and down 
in the music-room, next to the library ; so I heard 
distinctly what they said. I called out to them that I 
was not asleep. Gifford said they would not talk if 
it disturbed me, but he wanted me to know what he 
was trying to tell Frank, for I was Marian's friend, 
and he hoped that, for her sake, I would be his friend 

too. , . . r t,- 

Well, he went back to the begmnmg of his ac- 
quaintance. " I realize now," he said, " that I have 
thought and cared only for myself. It never entered 
into my head to question whether I, a man nearly 
double her age, could make the happiness of that 
lovely child. I took it for granted that any woman, 
so honored as to be my wife, must necessarily be 
happy," he said, sarcastically. " I was really very 
fond of her, but I thought her a sweet, shallow little 
thing, as indeed I used to think all women were by 
nature, except those of the dreadfully strong-minded, 
short-skirted class, who are my special aversion. 

" After a while, I wearied of the role of devoted 
lover and husband; then I noticed that Marian 
seemed changed. She lost her buoyancy and bright- 
ness. I blamed her and left her alone. I went back 
to my club, and, although I cannot accuse myself of 
intending to neglect her, I see that I never praised 
her, never showed that I cared to have her with me, 



254 GIFFORD'S WIFE. 

except when we were invited formally to some place, 
where I wished to introduce my beautiful wife. She 
had her music, and books, her old school-friends, and 
her housekeeping. 

" I had an idea that these resources were sufficient 
for any ordinary woman. Marian never had any pas- 
sion for housekeeping, for its own sake. At first, it 
seemed a pleasure to her, when I used to let her, in her 
quaint, pretty way, tell me of her mistakes, and laugh 
over them with her. But I made up my mind that it 
was beneath my dignity to play David to my Dora ; 
and once I told her so. I can see her startled, 
grieved look, now ! Something went from her face 
then, that has never come back. I told her she 
could have an excellent housekeeper to relieve her 
of all domestic cares, if she pleased, as if that would 
make it any better. 

" It is humiliating to acknowledge, but I honestly 
believe, that, if Marian had not been so utterly alone 
in the world, I should have been more considerate 
of her. I gave up petting her, because I thought it 
made her exacting and dependent upon me. Still I 
was proud of her, and especially proud of her singing. 
Whatever she had, or was, belonged to me, and so 
far as it flattered me, I prized it. Good God ! what 
a selfish brute I have been, all through ! But, Mason, 
I never realized it until lately. 

" Speaking of her voice, do you remember how Jack 
Brenton admired her, and how he used to rave about 
her singing ? I had forgotten that he had ever cared 
for her, and brought him up with me one night. I 
heard them singing together. It was like the music 



GIFFORHS WIFE. 255 

of heaven, but you may be sure I stopped it, and 
afterwards I told Marian it was indecorous to sing 
with so much expression ! 

" Jealous ? Yes, I suppose I was, in a most mean 
and cruel fashion. I was jealous of her devotion to 
our boy. For a good while, Marian had not been 
well enough to go out with me in the evenings. But 
when we came to town, for the winter, — Hugh was 
six months old then, — I told Marian I wanted her to 
go into society again ; that she was becoming a 
thorough little rustic, shut up in that quaint place on 
the Hudson. So she went. But still I was not sat- 
isfied. I felt that she had left her heart in the nur- 
sery. Again and again, I was told that my wife was 
more beautiful than ever, and I could see it was 
true myself. Whenever I saw her looking particu- 
larly gay and pretty, I knew that some one was talk- 
ing to her about our boy ! " 

Frank said : " Don't go on Giiford, it hurts you 
so!" 

" No, no ! I must ; and it is a relief, too. I can 
understand the comfort of the confessional now," he 
said, grimly. "These days and nights of May's de- 
lirium have shown me myself in such a hideous light 
that I cannot bear that you and your wife, May's best 
and dearest friends, should think better of me than I 
deserve. For I haven't come to the worst, Frank — 
/ made Marian go with me that night whefi our boy 
was sick. My sister, who had had four children of her 
own, promised to stay with Hugh, and so she did. 
He died in her arms before we reached home — " 

" It's of no use. I can't talk about that time. I 



256 GIFFORD'S WIFE. 

think I am just beginning to understand Marian. I 
have been so blind — so blind in my self-conceit ! 
After you were up here at Easter, I sent for Dr. 
Walker, and had a long talk with him about her. I 
saw that your wife was anxious about her, when she 
was here. Walker did not like May's symptoms. 
There was a suppressed irritability about her, and an 
unnatural nervous energy in all that she did. He 
said though, if she got safely through, he thought 
there would be no danger afterwards. I have tried 
to be good to her since then. But I can't tell you, 
Frank, how it made me feel, — to see her shrink from 
being petted, to see her look of surprise when I called 
her by her old pet names. She was gentle and cour- 
teous, and I saw that she tried hard to be affectionate. 

"Once, like a fool, I began to speak about the 
night of the Charity Ball. ' No ! no ! ' she cried \ 
*' Don't dare to speak of that ! ' I see I have thrown 
away her heart. It serves me right, but I can't bear 
to live this way, and it will never do for her either. 
If she will only live, Frank, I think some time I 
could make her happy again. God forgive me ! " 

And she did live. 

Frank went home to the children, and I stayed for 
two or three weeks and helped Gifford take care of 
Marian. What those weeks of Marian's illness were 
to them both, such happy people as Frank and I can 
scarcely guess. I know that all her hardness passed 
away, and she had plenty of useful work when she 
grew better, in helping Gifford to forgive himself. 
She never spoke of the troubled past, as Gifford did ; 
only once she said to me, with tears in her eyes, 



GIFFORD'S WIFE. 257 

*' Kitty, I have been very hard and bad. I have not 
dared to pray, 'Our Father,' all through, since baby 
died, until now." 

Marian has a far finer character than Gifford, but 
he is wonderfully changed. It is a standing marvel 
to me to this day, to see Marian evidently consider 
her husband so nearly perfect as she does. Gifford 
has redeemed his pledge, for his wife is a happy 
woman, and I know that the bitterness has been 
taken away ; else she could not use that same little 
brown book, lovingly and freely as she does, for 
writing about her other precious babies. 
17 



258 THE WIND AND 



THE WIND AND THE WHIRLWIND. 



Poor little Jessie ! How well I remember the 
first time I ever saw' her ! It was a cold, bright win- 
ter morning. We were sitting in our library, — a 
pleasant, sunny room, and my mother had been giv- 
ing me some lessons in darning ; at which I was prac- 
ticing patiently, in hope of being permitted to mend 
a tiny break in one of my father's socks. 

Looking up, I caught sight of a bent figure in a 
gray cloak and hood, as it passed the window, on the 
way to the front porch. 

" Dear me, mamma ! There is Aunt Debby. Now 
she'll talk, ever so long, about everything under the 
sun," I said impatiently; for my mother had just 
begun a delightful story, with ; " Once upon a time, 
when I was a little girl " — 

" Open the door, dear," said my mother, gently^ 
without noticing my impatience. "Jane is in the 
kitchen, and may not hear Miss Debby's little knock ; 
and she must not be kept out in the cold." 

By the time I had reached the hall, my ill-nature 
had vanished, and Aunt Debby received as hearty a 
welcome as she deserved. She came up to the bright 
fire in the open Franklin, and sat down in an easy- 
chair which my mother had placed for her. 

"It do beat all, Mis' L., to see how different the 



THE WHIRLWIND. 259 

Lord do fix folkses in this 'ere world," she said, 
abruptly, after inquiries had been exchanged. 

" What is it, now. Aunt Debby ? " asked my mother, 
pleasantly. 

" Well, the fact is, I've come for you, for there's a 
bad job — in one of the Judge's houses, too. I've just 
come from there, with the doctor. I done what I 
could, but I guess the doctor, he's about right. He 
says : ' This 'ere tangle needs finer fingers to handle 
than yourn or mine. I guess you'd better tell Mis' L.,' 
sez he; 'she'll know the right thing to say and do, 
and she'll do it, too,' sez he. So you see, I'm here ; 
but jest as I come along, and see you and your little 
darter, a settin' so cosy and comfortable like in your 
pretty room, full of books an' pictures an' what-nots, 
it come across me, sudden an' sharp, how this very 
minute there's a poor mother, a stone's throw away, 
lyin' in her misery, with a misfortunate little hunch- 
back of a darter, an' she sick an' sufTerin', with a 
brute of a husband, an' a little dead baby, that never 
had no welcome, an' hasn't waited for no funeral, 
neither. The doctor says it's next door to murder, 
least ways." 

By this time, I had become so interested that I was 
rather sorry when my mother remarked, quietly : " Ex- 
cuse me, a moment, Miss Debby," and, calling me to 
her, said : " Dear, will you go and tell Maggie I 
would like her to make some mutton-broth with bar- 
ley, just as she made \\. for Jack yesterday ; and you 
may pack a loaf or two of bread, with some butter 
and cold beef, and a glass of currant jelly in a basket. 



26o THE WIND AND 

and put on your cloak and hood and rubbers, and be 
ready to go with me, if you like." 

When my mother came to the door with Aunt Deb- 
by, and I told her the basket and I were all ready, 
she looked very sad, and I wondered that she was 
not in greater haste to go. I remember how she 
went back to the bright wood-fire, and stood looking 
thoughtfully down into the coals. I know, now, that 
she was truly getting ready to go to that house of 
misery and sin and shame. 

It was not far — not more than a quarter of a mile 
away from our pleasant home on the knoll. Along 
the brawling, beautiful river which made one of the 
chief beauties of our country home, there was a row 
of tenant-houses, which had been occupied by the 
employees of a paper-mill situated on the property. 
When the former owner failed, and my father bought 
the place, it seemed to him and my mother cruel to 
tear down the plain little houses, with their hop-vines 
over the porches, and send the occupants adrift. 
*' If they are obliged to go and seek work elsewhere, 
I should not feel so strongly about it," said my 
mother, to an aesthetic visitor who was urging the re- 
moval. 

But there were two houses, beyond the blacksmith's, 
under the willows, and the square house with the old 
cherry trees, whose tenants were always of a less per- 
manent type. It was one of these houses which my 
-mother and I entered, that sunny winter morning. 

" Will you please come in, ma'am — I can't quite 
reach the latch," said a childish voice, in response to 
rnv mother's knock. 



THE WHIRLWIND. 261 

Oh! pitiful sight! Opposite us, as we entered, 
stood a little figure, a head and shoulders shorter 
than myself, with a white, pathetic little face, broad 
across the honest, bright blue eyes, but narrowing 
sharply at the chin, and light brown hair, brushed 
smooth, and braided in two tight braids, which reached 
only to the poor, misshapen shoulders. The curve 
of her figure was as marked in the chest as in the 
back. I had the impression that the poor head could 
scarcely see over the large, protruding breastbone. 

" Jessie, my pretty, give the ladies chairs," said a 
feeble voice from the curtained bed in a corner of 
the room. " You're kindly welcome, ma'am ; I'm 
sorry there's not a better place for you to sit in." 

My mother went quietly toward the bed, and I 
heard her soft voice bidding the sick woman not to 
try to talk now, and not to trouble herself about the 
children— they would be looked after. 

"God bless you, ma'am. The children are my 
great anxiety, for he's so careless of them, when he's 
not himself. Johnny, he's gone to cut some wood, 
the doctor sent— he's coming now— so it'll be warmer 
soon." 

I was left to make acquaintance with the poor little 
cripple, who had placed a chair for me near the cook- 
ing-stove, and, after a moment, seated herself on a 
bench near by. She seemed like a little woman— not 
a child like myself. Later, when she answered my 
mother's few questions, there was occasionally a pain- 
ful fit of stammering, especially when she alluded to 
her father or elder brother. 

When asked who had been with her mother in the 



262 THE WIND AND 

night : " Me and Johnny were here, ma'am," an- 
swered she, convulsively, " until ten o'clock, when 
father came. Mother felt very bad, and father, he 
said as how mother could get up and cook his supper 
if she wanted to, and then he beat her because she 
couldn't, and I thought he'd killed her. Johnny and 
I hollered till a woman next door came in, and sent 
Johnny and me in to her house for her husband, and 
he said he'd go for the doctor, and we was to stay in 
his house with the children, till his wife came back 
irom our house." 

" And then, twelve o'clock, her baby was so bad 
she had to leave mother, and we went back there. 
Father was gone, so we stayed with mother, and she 
made us get into the trundle-bed, and she said if she 
wanted anything she'd call me, but she did not call at 
all, only I knew she felt awful bad, she moaned so — 
and the man next door came back and said the doc- 
tor would be away all night. He didn't come till 
morning, and then he sent a kind old lady here, and 
the woman next door, she gave Johnny and me some 
breakfast — and then, ma'am, you came, and that's all." 

" Poor children ! It was a hard night for you," 
said my mother, gently. "You are a good little 
nurse, I dare say, Jessie, but your mother must have 
somebody older with her now." 

" Please, ma'am, don't send me away from mother. 
She's so used to me, she's lonesome without me, I 
do think." 

"Very well, dear. You and Johnny may go into 
the next room, and lie down and go to sleep. I shall 



THE WHIRLWIND. 263 

be here until the nurse comes ; so you need not stay- 
awake, to take care of your mother." 

The children had just gone, and my mother, who 
had put fresh pillow-cases on the coarse tick, was 
bathing Mrs. Jordison's head, when a man entered 
the rear door, and, not seeing my mother and myself 
in the shadow of the curtain, called out, angrily : " So 
you're up to your old tricks, are you ? lying in bed 
instead of getting up and cooking your husband's 
dinner like a decent woman." And then followed 
some words which I did not understand, but I knew 
that the tone was brutal. He stood in the doorway 
as he finished. 

" Do not speak, Mrs. Jordison," said my mother, 
gently, as the sick woman, almost fainting, tried to 
say : " William, William, don't talk so." My mother 
left the bedside and walked toward the middle of 
the room. 

" You are Mr. Jordison, I suppose," said my moth- 
er, quietly. The man's whole appearance changed. 
A cringing, astonished, terrified look came over his 
face, as he realized that a lady was there with his 
wife. 

I do not remember what my mother said then ; I 
only recall the expression of her countenance. She 
was a fragile little woman, with a delicate face, beau- 
tiful blue eyes, and thick, soft, brown hair. Never 
in my life had I imagined that she could look terrible I 
The man dropped his bravado, and went out mutter- 
ing : 

" I didn't mean to do nothink, ma'am, but it's rather 



264 THE WIND AND 

hard on a man not to have anything to heat, and 
no 'ome to come to, and a wife a-blabbin' forever." 

My mother said, quietly but with emphasis : " If 
you are able to understand that the doctor has been 
here, and that your wife has been silent, you may well 
be grateful to her, and be glad to remain away until 
the doctor notifies you that you may return." Then 
she went back to the bedside, and soothed the tremb- 
ling woman, until she fell asleep and the nurse who 
had been sent for arrived. 

" What a horrid man, mamma ! " I said, during 
our walk homeward. " Were you not afraid of him ? " 

" No," she replied, with an amused look ; " cruel 
persons are generally cowards, and I hope he- will 
behave better now, for having been a little frightened." 

My mother visited Mrs. Jordison often, during the 
next fortnight, but I did not accompany her again 
for several weeks. 

Once I said : " Mrs. J. seems so much nicer than 
her husband, mamma, — I don't see how she can bear 
to have him about her." 

" My child, there is seldom such a terrible state of 
affairs as we found in that house, without some fault 
on both sides. It is something I do not wish you to 
speak of, but I will tell you something of Mrs. J.'s 
history. She was a wilful girl, and she married 
against her parents' wishes, — without their knowl- 
edge, indeed, — and she feels, now, that much which 
she has to bear is the consequence of her own wrong, 
years ago. She is reaping a harvest of the seed she 
herself has sown. She did not honor her father and 
mother, and it has not gone well with her." 



THE WHIRLWIND. 265 

" Is she sorry, mamma ? " I asked. 

"Yes, my child. I believe she is heartily sorry 
for her own sin, as well as for its consequences on 
herself and on her children." 

I was often sent on errands to the little brown 
house. Mrs. J. was a neat seamstress, and my moth- 
er gave her sewing to do, and interested others in 
helping her in this way. And meanwhile, at home, 
my mother helped me to make a warm hood and a 
thick winter frock for little Jessie, and let me take 
the things to the grateful child. 

Johnny, her brother, was six years old, — a bright, 
rather handsome little fellow, with something of his 
father's Canadian vivacity about him, but I liked bet- 
ter, plain little Jessie, whose only charm was in her 
frank simplicity and faithfulness. The children came 
to Sunday-school, and seemed really happy and merry. 

Suddenly, in the spring, the whole family disap- 
peared. Mrs. J. had, without her husband's knowl- 
edge, come up the' day before they left, and told my 
mother all about it. J. was a tailor, and he said he 
had a chance of work in a distant town. He wished 
to take the two boys with him, and steal quietly 
away, leaving his wife to struggle on with little Jes- 
sie. But the mother was not content to have Johnny 
with his father. " He'll make him just like himself, 
and I cannot lose my boy that way," she said, with 
tears. "Johnny loves and minds me now, but his 
father has wonderfully winning ways when he chooses 
(you would not believe it, to see him as he generally 
is) ; and he would only teach the child to gamble and 
drink, and may-be to beg and steal. No, ma'am, I 



266 THE WIND AND 

must go with my husband for the sake of my children. 
But this has been a haven of rest to me. If we could 
only stop here," sighed the poor woman. 

One day, after they had gone, I was enjoying the 
special treat of rearranging the articles in my 
mother's treasure-drawer. "Why, mamma, dear, I 
never saw this pin before, did I ? " I asked, taking a 
handsome, odd, old brooch from her jewel-case. 

"Very likely not, dear," she said. "I am keeping 
it for Mrs. Jordison. I think she has no way to 
secure anything valuable. It was a gift from her 
mother, when she was a girl." 

It was beautiful and must have been very expen- 
sive. I did not know until long afterward that Mrs. 
Jordison had begged my mother to buy it, and that 
my mother not wishing to do so, had given her twenty 
dollars, and consented to retain the brooch, in order 
to lessen the poor woman's almost painful sense of 
obligation. 

Years passed away. My dear mother went home 
to God, from a far-off island in the Southern sea ; to 
the very last giving her life for others, in generous 
self-forgetfulness, and unfaltering courage. True 
words were those which my sorrowing, bereaved 
father wrote in his journal concerning her, the sweet 
wife of his youth and the crowning joy of his home : 

" She was an obedient daughter, an affectionate 
sister, a true friend ; — a loving, faithful and devoted 
wife and mother, and an humble disciple of her dear 
Saviour. She had a noble, generous heart ; she 
could not eat her crust alone. Dearly beloved and 



THE WHIRLWIND. 267 

honored, as she was, by all who knew her, her loss is 
to her husband and her children." 

One day, I noticed a man with a little bo}'', coming 
out from my father's office. I thought the man was 
Jordison, and imagined the boy was Johnny; and 
my father told me that it was he, and that he had very 
reluctantly consented to let him occupy the old 
brown house again. "If your mother had not felt 
such an interest in his wife, I would not have the 
fellow around again," said he ; "he is a bad, slippery 
man, and I dislike to have him in the neighborhood. 
But you had better go down and see his wife, my 
dear. She is a respectable, worthy woman, and an 
unfortunate one." 

So, with my father's sanction, after my lessons were 
learned for the day, I went on my errand alone. How 
I missed the loving mother, without whose guidance I 
had never visited the little brown house ! All that 
my mother had told me of Mrs. J., and much that an 
old housekeeper had casually mentioned, came back 
to me in that walk, and, with my added years, I un- 
derstood better the terrible position of the wife and 
mother whom I was going to see. I remember, too, 
a feeling of satisfaction that ray mother had trusted 
me with a part of the woman's sad story, and that 
my father had now sent me to her. It seemed as if 
it were in my dear mother's stead. 

When I knocked, Mrs. J. opened the door. She 
did not seem to recognize me at first. The child of 
ten had grown into a girl of thirteen, and I suppose 
sorrow had added a look of maturer years. When 
she knew me, bursting into tears she exclaimed : 



268 THE WIND AND 

" Oh ! my dear young lady you have lost your dear 
mother, and I have lost the kindest, sweetest lady- 
friend I had in the world ! " Her grief and sympathy 
were such as to break me down, although, usually, 
when others wept, it made me feel still. 

She told me they had been in Canada, for a little, 
where she earned money and they were quite comfort- 
able, until J. met some of his old acquaintances, and 
then there was nothing but carousal and shame, and 
almost starvation for herself and little Jessie. She 
had begged him to come back to the States — to New 
York, — which to her meant the banks of the rushing, 
roaring, sparkling Taronoc; promising to sew or 
take in washing, and support herself, Johnny and 
Jessie. Much to her wonder and delight, he had 
consented. 

" I did not know my dear lady was not here, until 
we reached the station yesterday. If I had, I would 
not have longed so to come back." 

Glancing around the room I recognized the same 
curtains at the windows, the queer table and some 
old pieces of furniture. The bed, with its chintz cur- 
tains, was in another room, leaving more space in 
the square, low-ceiling room, with its three old- 
fashioned windows and small panes of glass. A low 
chair, near a window facing the road, was Mrs. J.'s 
usual seat. Behind her was a door, leading, by a 
crooked flight of stairs, into the garret, where there 
was only one room partitioned off from the unfinished 
loft. She told me, afterwards, that she had more 
than once retreated, with her two younger children, 
up those stairs, and pushed the bolt — which she her- 



THE WHIRLWIND. 269 

self had put on — when her husband and elder son 
had come home " wild," — sometimes bringing boon 
companions, with whom they would drink and play 
until they fell to the floor. Then she would creep 
down, put out the light, look to the fire, and return 
to her crippled little daughter and Johnny. 

" Jordison and Egbert can't bear the sight of my 
poor little Jessie," said she, one day, when I asked 
her how long the latter had been crippled. "She 
was as straight and bright and pretty a darling as 
you ever saw, until she was three years old. Then, 
one day, Egbert took her out on a sled. He was 
seven years old, at the time. We were a good deal 
better off then than now," sighed she. "But Egbert 
always was a wilful boy. I told him not to take Jes- 
sie out, for Johnny was sick in my arms, and I could 
not fasten the little one in the sled, as I always did. 
He disobeyed me, and Jessie was jerked off the sled 
backward, and from that day she never was well. 
Her poor little head was dreadfully bruised, as well 
as her back, and the doctors thought she could not 
live. She is a good little darling — a real Christian 
child, — and my greatest earthly comfort, but the 
misery and ill-treatment the poor child has suffered 
have made me often wish the Lord had taken her to 
Himself when she was hurt. 

"Well, you see. Miss M., Egbert can't bear the 
sight of her, for she is a living reproach to him ; and 
her father can't abide anything misshapen around 
him, though it be his own poor innocent child. He 
seems to think he is disgraced by my poor little Jes- 
sie," sighed the poor woman, bitterly. " Now, Johnny 



270 THE WIND AXD 

he is fond of, but I would almost rather he hated 
him for he will ruin him, as he has Egbert, if he has 
a chance." 

One pleasant summer day in June, I found Mrs. 
Jordison unusually bright and happy. She was a 
remarkable-looking woman, — a brunette, with clear- 
cut features, fine, dark eyes, and delicately marked 
eyebrows. Her hair was black and abundant, and 
always neatly arranged. There was an intense and 
alert look, usually to be noticed in her face, — the 
token of the strain of years of terror, pain and long 
endurance. But there was a certain buoyancy about 
her, in spite of what she had suffered. She welcomed 
pleasant thoughts, turned readily from her sad lot 
to consideration for others, and was not beyond 
seeing and enjoying amusing circumstances in her 
own condition. 

This day, she looked ten years younger and gayer 
than usual, and I began to understand that she might 
have been a beautiful girl, — indeed, that now she 
might be called a handsome woman. I suppose she 
noticed my surprise at her gaiety. Her dark eyes 
flashed, as she looked up from her sewing. 

" I was away all day, yesterday," said she. " I 
walked to Barnet and back, and was well paid for 
it;" and she half drew from her pocket a letter with 
a foreign post-stamp. Then she stopped suddenly, 
and remarked : "Your mother knew my whole story, 
Miss M., and she did not turn away from me. She 
was like an angel of God, for she helped me see my 
sins, when I had, before, only been willing to see my 
misery. May I tell you something of my life ? No 



THE WHIRLWIND. 27 1 

one here knows, unless your father. I do not dare 
to speak to any one. If J. knew I had told, I be- 
lieve he would kill me. He thinks I am too proud 
to tell how low I have fallen." 

By this time, my girlish heart was eager, indeed, 
and the mystery and secrecy heightened the charm. 
" My mother did tell me something about you," 
said I. 

" What did she tell you, my dear young lady t " 

" That you had disobeyed your parents, and mar- 
ried without their consent or knowledge, and had 
suffered very much ever since." 

She gave a great sigh. " True, true ! I sowed the- 
wind, and have reaped the whirlwind. If the suffer- 
ing only could be all mine, I would be content to 
bear it, but the evil has gone to my children, and 
they are suffering and must suffer for their mother's 
sake Your dear mother bade me think less of my 
husband's wrong doing and more of my own ; and 
told me I owed a duty to him, as well as to my chil- 
dren, for I was his wife. It was new doctrine to me, 
for, these many years, I have felt that he was less 
than nothing to me ; but I do see that she was right, 
and oh ! Miss M., sometimes I wish I could love him 
again, as I used to. But he has been so cruel — so^ 
cruel ; he has done his best to give me agony through 
my children. Sometimes, it seems to me I don't dare 
to pray : Forgive me, * as I forgive ' him ! " 

The glow died out of her face, as she spoke, until 
I reminded her : " But you did not tell me of your 
good news, Mrs. J." 

The bright look came back, and, glancing through. 



^72 THE WIND AND 

all the windows and toward the door, to see that no 
one was near, she said : " My letter was from my 
daughter, Eleanor, in London, Miss M." 

" I did not know you had another daughter," I 
replied, in astonishment. 

" Yes, my dear young lady. I have a bright, hand- 
some daughter, sixteen years old ; but she does not 
belong to me now. I gave her away to my sister. 

Lady L 1, ten years ago, and she has nothing to 

do with us, except to write to me, once in a while ; 
and sometimes she sends me a present for her little 
sister. She does not know that my Jessie is a crip- 
ple, and wonders that I do not send her picture, as 
well as Johnny's. I have never liad the heart to tell 
them about her misfortune, though it happened nine 
years ago." 

" Have you never seen her, all these years ? " 

" Yes, once ; four years ago. My husband had 
gone off with Egbert, and left me to take care of my- 
self and of the younger children. I did not know 
where he had gone, or whether he would ever come 
back. A few days after he left, I received a letter 
from my sister, enclosing a five-pound note. I took 
that, and a few dollars I had earned sewing, and 
crossed with my two children in the steerage. It was 
not so bad as you would think. Every one was very 
kind, from the captain down to the steerage stew- 
ardess. My poor Jessie seemed to make friends in 
a wonderful way. She is such a pleasant, patient 
little creature." 

'•And then, when you landed, did you see your 



THE WHIRLWIND. 273 

daughter, Eleanor, immediately ? Did she meet you 
at the steamer ? " 

" No, indeed, dear heart,'' she answered, with a 
short laugh. " A fine lady, like Eleanor, must not 
dream that her mother crossed in the steerage. We 
took a train for London, and went directly to lodg- 
ings. I knew the woman of the house. Her mother 
had been my mother's maid ; and I knew it would be 
safe to leave the children with her, when necessary. 

" And did they see Eleanor, and was she very 
glad ? " 

Mrs. J. shook her head slowly. " She never saw 
Jessie at all. I didn't dare to show her her poor 
little sister, nor did- I ever tell them that she was 
with me." 

•' Why are you so afraid of them, Mrs. J. ? I think 
she must be a very strange girl, if she despises you 
because you are poor," I said, hastily. 

" My dear young lady," she answered, sadly, " I 
can't expect you to understand the difference between 
the two sisters. Eleanor is proud and selfish and 
petted. Everything painful or unpleasant is kept 
from her ; and she would no more think of loving or 
kissing Jessie than if she were a little Hottentot." 

" Was Eleanor so proud, and so unkind when she 
was little ? " I asked, with indignant pity for poor 
little Jessie. 

" She was a dear, affectionate girl, but always a 
little haughty and wilful ; but, ah ! me, if I had 
thought she ever could have grown so proud, I would 
not have given her away to my sister." 

" Was she willing to be adopted, and to have you 
18 



2 74 THE WIND AND THE WHIRLWIND. 

leave her there ? " I inquired, in absolute wonder, at 
the thought. 

Mrs. J. wiped her eyes, and said, slowly: "My 
dear, it had to be so. My sister had written she 
would help me, but she would not give a farthing to 
Jordison. If I had been willing to leave him, I could 
have gone to England, and my sister would have 
taken care of me. But in those days I loved my 
husband, and he was not so unkind, either; and I 
had taken him for better, for worse, and I wrote my 
sister so. 

"Then my sister said she would not help me, but 
if I wished she would take one of the children, pro- 
vided I would promise never to claim it again, and 
she sent me money for my passage, first-class, with 
my children. My husband insisted on my going over 
to England with the three, to let her have her choice. 
Jessie was only three years old, — a little darling with 
golden curls and a sunny face ; Eleanor was six, and 
Egbert eight. We went to Betty Sampson's, and I 
went out and bought nice suits for the children and 
myself — I had more money then, than I have ever 
had, since.' 



WHEN- THE EVEN WAS COMEr 275 



"WHEN THE EVEN WAS COME." 



(Matthew, viii. 23-28; Mark, iv. 35-40; Luke, viii. 22-26.) 

It was near the close of a hard and trying day. 

The Devil had devised two plans for hindering the 
Lord in His work, and both had failed. 

It seems that, in the early hours of this day, the 
scribes who had been sent from Jerusalem arrived at 
Capernaum. They came to accuse the Lord Jesus of 
fellowship with Satan, of casting out devils through 
Beelzebub the prince of the devils. While Jesus was 
rebuking them, with fearless words of scathing and 
searching truth, His mother and His brethren sought 
Him on a different errand. " Scribes and Pharisees, 
hypocrites," said " He hath a devil." His kinsman, 
— for in those days " neither did his brethren believe 
in Him," — sought to lay hold on Him, saying " He is 
beside himself," — " He is mad." 

Whether Mary, His mother, came vi^ith them to hin- 
der, or to help them, in their purpose to withdraw 
Him from His work, we cannot tell. She was only a 
woman, although the mother of our Lord. She loved 
Him, and she feared for Him. There may have been 
much for her to learn, in the two years between this 
eventime, and the fearful hour of darkness, when she 
stood by His cross, and when, with the soldier's 
spear, " a sword pierced through her own soul also." 



276 " WHEN THE EVEN WAS COMEr 

We are told nothing about the interview between 
Jesus and His mother and His brethren. But the 
blessed words are on record : " He stretched forth 
His hand to His disciples, and said, 'Behold My 
mother and My brethren ! For whosoever shall do 
the will of My Father which is in heaven the same is 
My brother, and sister, and mother.' " Yet we know 
He craved human love and sympathy. How hard it 
must have been, to be so misunderstood by those who 
had known Him longest and who should have loved 
Him best. 

But neither Scribes nor Pharisees, mother nor 
brethren, turned Him away one moment from His 
Father's work. Through the long hours of that day, 
He sat in a little fishing-boat, and talked to the mul- 
titudes on the shore of the sea of Galilee. To this 
day's teachings we may refer, at least, the parable of 
the sower, the lighted candle, the seed growing while 
the sower slept, the grain of mustard seed — and prob- 
ably many others. But it had been a long, hard 
strain on the grand, loving heart, on the fathomless 
sympathies of the Son of Man. Weary and ex- 
hausted, "when the even was come. He saith unto 
His disciples, ' Let us pass over unto the other side.' 
And when they had sent away the multitude, they 
look Him, even as He was, in the ship." 

As they sailed, a great storm of wind arose, and 
the waves beat into the ship. Through the narrow, 
mountain gorges on the western shore, the wind swept 
down, — as it does to this day, — with terrific power and 
suddenness, lashing the sea into fury, and imperiling 
the little boats on their way to the eastern coast. 



''WHEN THE EVEN WAS COMEr 277 

*' But Jesus was in the hinder part of the ship, asleep, 
on a pillow." 

We know that, in His earthly life, He slept, as 
truly as He was athirst and hungered, as truly 
as He was weary, and rested at noon, by the well 
of Sychar. We are told how He rose up, a great 
while before day, and departed into a solitary place 
and there prayed ; how, " at night, when every man 
went into his own house, He went unto the Mount of 
Olives." We have the record of His midnight watch 
in the garden of Gethsemane, while His disciples were 
sleeping. We have a precious record of His thirty- 
three years — of waiting and working, of His obedience 
and suffering, of His doing and dying ; — but only this 
once may we have a glimpse of the weary, human- 
hearted Saviour sleeping! 

He had no earthly home. He had not even where 
to lay His head. In the midst of the storm, in a 
rude fishing-boat on the sea of Galilee, He slept. 
But it seemed so strange to the disciples, that Jesus 
should sleep while they thought they were perishing; 
as it did to a shipmaster eight hundred years before, 
when Jonah, — obstinate, disobedient and very human 
Jonah, — on his way to Tarshish, slept in the midst of 
the tempest, which the Lord had sent for his sake. 

Strange contrast and parallel between the type and 
the anti-type ! Jesus doing His Father's will, cross- 
ing the raging sea to save two poor demoniacs on the 
other shore : — Jonah, " fleeing from the presence of 
the Lord," because he was unwilling to go to Nine- 
veh, and warn and save a city of sixscore thousand 
souls ! Truly, and blessedly for the disciples, " a 



278 " WHEN THE EVEN WAS COME:' 

greater than Jonas was there ! " The heathen sea- 
men in the ship of Tarshish knew that they must 
perish with Jonah in their ship ; the terrified disciples 
with Jesus in their ship, nevertheless feared that they 
would perish. They awoke Him with their cries : 
" Lord, save us, we perish ! " " Master, Master, 
carest Thou not t " That sounds like the cry of 
Peter, — warm-hearted, hot-headed, impetuous, vehe- 
ment, impulsive, impatient Peter ! 

They cared not that they awoke Him from the 
"brief, sweet slumber into which He had fallen. He 
had said, " Let us go over unto the other shore ; '* 
but it seems they forgot all about that, in their ter- 
ror. Fishermen as they were, living all their lives 
on, or by the shore of that very sea, it must have 
been indeed a " tempest from the Lord," that so un- 
manned them, and even threatened to make ship- 
wreck of their faith. How nobly calm and grand 
sound the words of the Master, as He rises and stills 
the winds and the raging of the waters, speaking 
^' Peace " to the tempest that threatened their lives, 
and a better peace to the unbelief that would wreck 
their souls. 

Our minister once, in preaching on this subject, 
told us that there were three lessons to be learned 
from it : 

First. That God often suffers us to get into trouble, 
even when we are doing His will. The disciples 
were obeying Jesus when they started for " the other 
side," and were overtaken by the storm. 

Second. That God always cares ^ although some- 
times our faint hearts may think He does not notice, or 



" WHEN THE EVEN WAS COME:' 279 

is indifferent to our troubles. Jesus slept, but He was 
in the boat with them ; so they were safe, and could 
not perish. 

Third. That God will surely give His people a 
happy deliverance out of all their troubles. He may 
suffer sickness to weaken and rack the body ; He 
may permit the noble mind to wander, for a while, in 
darkness and dismay. But even out of these sore 
distresses, what a glorious, happy issue He gives His 
children in death. 

And so, from the troubles which " are not unto 
death." Though He should suffer any of us to lose 
friends, and home, and wealth, and even our good 
name, yet let us be sure that " His compassions fail 
not," and none " that put their trust in Him shall 
ever be left desolate." " Wait on the Lord ; be of 
good courage, and He shall strengthen thine heart." 
*' I had fainted unless 1 had believed to see the goodness ^ 
of the Lord in the land of the liviiig^ 

It is for us to man the oar He gives us in the 
storm, to do our duty in the place where He puts us, 
to believe that He cares, and will surely, surely, in His 
own right time, and in His own best way, deliver us 
out of all our troubles. 

" He maketh the storm a calm ; — then are they 
glad, because they be quiet ; so He bringeth them 
unto their desired haven." 



28o A DOMESTIC MISSION. 



A DOMESTIC MISSION. 



" Oh ! Aunt Hetty, how do you do ? " exclaimed a 
bright, graceful young woman, at the close of the 
"Ladies' Mission Hour," in the Lecture Room of 
the church at B., at the same time warmly grasping 
the hand of an older member, who had spoken at the 
meeting, — a plain, old-fashioned, loving soul, to 
whom, " tho' more than kindred knew," many of the 
younger members "gave a parent's due," as the meed 
of an unflagging although unpretending zeal in the 
good cause. " So, you have been to see your niece, 
and my friend Milly Harper, and the dear little 
twins ! Do come home with me, and tell me all 
about your visit. I got a letter from Milly, — such a 
funny letter ; she says ' another domestic heathen ' is 
nearly converted, and that 'some of Aunt Hetty's 
quaintly put arguments ' are not altogether innocent 
of the credit for much of the progress." 

So, when the two had reached the pleasant cottage 
of Milly's friend, and were comfortably seated in the 
easy-chairs on the shaded porch. Aunt Hetty began : 

Well, Milly has told you, of course, all about the 
little ones — triTst her, or any young mother, for that 
— an' darlin' little cherubs they are, jest as like 
as two cherries on one stem. Of course, they 
were wonderful glad to see me — that is, the old folks- 



A DOMESTIC MISSION. 281 

were, an' if I wasn't glad to see the bawbies for the 
first time, it was because I didn't ketcii 'em up, one 
at a time, an' both together, an' kiss 'em an' squeeze 
their little cheeks agin mine, until they an' their 
mother began to think I was a-goin' to devour 'em. 

Then, after I was rested an' come down to where 
Milly was, a bouncin' around at her work, with the 
little tots roUin' over the rug an' maulin' the kitten, — 
why, the old, old, new, new, story began — all about 
those babies. "The very best babies that ever 
were, in the world," naturally, an' " so healthy an' 
cunnin'," an' one of 'em " gettin' a fine row of teeth ; '' 
an' every now an' then, she'd turn to me, mother-like, 
for an approvin' smile. 

Just then, a thought kind o' struck me, and so, the 
next time she come to the end o' one of her fond 
stories, an' looked towards me, with a pretty blush, 
an' that smile o' mother-love, I jest kept my face as 
straight as I could, an' I sez, very serious, " Well, 
you're a good mother, Milly Harper, sez I, an' you 
can't help a lovin' your own, but I tell you, there's 
two sides to every shield, an' I hope an' pray you may 
be supported under this great burden, — I was goin' to 
say affliction, — that has been put on your shoulders." 

But, my ! didn't her eyes flash ? And then she 
jest come a runnin' over to me, an', between laughin' 
an' cryin' an' wonderin', sez she : " Why, Aunt Hetty ! 
how can you say such a dreadful thing about my dar- 
ling babies ? " Then she went and sat down. 

" Well," sez I, — trying all my might to look sot an' 
stubborn, — "when you just contemplate an' consider, 
remember and recollect how comfortable an' at your 



282 A DOMESTIC MISSION. 

ease you and my nephew James Harper might ha' 
been an' continued to be, without stintin' yourselves 
here and pinchin' yourselves there, having your days 
in peace an' your rest o' nights ; how you might a'lived 
in a mansion, an' improvin' yourselves an' your neigh- 
bors with your music on the organ and your aesthetic 
altar-cloths an' religious fandangoes ; how you might 
a'kept your house as neat an' pretty as a pink — an' 
now, of course it'll be turned upside down, an' inside 
out ! It most generally is, for one baby ; an' what d' 
you s'pose it'll be for two ? " 

Milly just sat an' looked at me. " I think we'd 
have grown dreadfully selfish, living that way. Aunt 
Hetty. Perhaps James wouldn't, for he's ever so 
much better than I am. But I don't believe it's very 
good for people to live too much at their ease. I 
don't know exactly what you mean by religious fan- 
dangoes. You know we've left St. John's long ago, 
— Mr. St. Albans had so many queer notions ; and I 
don't mean to neglect my home and James's comfort 
even for the sake of the babies. 

" Well, Milly Harper, you do surprise me," sez I. 
"Just tell me true, don't you consider yourself an un- 
fortunate woman, now, — to have two babies, you may 
say thrust on you to once ? two lively bonny young 
ones, and, worst of all, a boy and a girl, an' both of 
'em pretty likely to live, so far as I see." 

She just gathered them up in her arms, an' hugged 
them tight, an' kind o' choked, whisperin' over an' a 
pettin' them a minute. An' then she turned to me, 
an' said, so sorrowful and slow : " Aunt Hetty, I 
don't see what has come over you. I think Cousin 



A DOMESTIC MISS 10 iV. 283 

Jemima and her husband must have done something 
very queer, to change you so. You always used to 
say children were blessings, and brought their wel- 
come with them, and you were such a good mother 
yourself, not only to your own children but to James 
and his little sister, and to other orphans, I can't im- 
agine why you say such dreadful things." 

" Mebbe I have my reasons for it," sez I, " an' I 
guess you'll allow that you've more 'n you can rightly 
care for. Stands to reason, two's twice as much 
trouble as one, an' '11 eat an' cost double ; an', as for 
clothes, you've got to have two whole sets, unless you 
put one of 'em to bed, spell about ; an' the bigger 
they grow the more trouble they'll be, what with 
measles an' scarlet fever, an' whoopin' cough, an' 
mumps, an' doctors' bills, an' schoolin'. An', all 
through, you've got to love James just the same, an' 
love an' care for these babies too ! " 

Milly stood right up, — her babies in her arms (I 
never quite made out how she could hold 'em both so 
handy, at once — but she did) an', sez she : " I'd 
work my fingers off for James, and for them, and you 
would, too. Aunt Hetty ; I know you would, for all 
you talk so ; " an' then she sat down, with a shiny 
look on her face. 

" I s'pose you think the Lord sent em' both, so 
you've got to put up with 'em an' do your best," sez 
I, as indifferent as I could. 

. " No, indeed ! Yes, to be sure ! I mean ; I know 
the Lord sent them both, but I'm not sorry, but glad, 
He did. And very likely we shall have trouble with 
them, — sleepless nights and anxious days, if they are 



284 A DOMESTIC MISSION. 

sick or fretful or naughty. But the Lord gives us 
that to do. and aren't they His little ones ? I do be- 
lieve they've helped us to care more for pleasing Him 
already;" an' she kissed 'em, warm an' tender, an' 
laid 'em down in the bassine. 

And then she sez, kind o' brave an' bright, but I 
somehow felt she was disappinted in me : " You 
can't think how many lovely messages we have had 
about the babies, and so many presents for them, too ! 
I didn't think people could take so much interest." 

"Well," sez I, sort o' meditative : "if they'd only 
both been boys, it wouldn't ha' been so bad ; you can 
turn boys out, to look out for themselves pretty soon. 
Or just supposin' you an' James had happened to a' 
been born in China or Injia ! How easy you could 
a' drowned the little girl in a wash-tub, or let her slip 
out the window, or set her afloat on the river, or hung 
her up in a basket on a tree, you know ! " 

Milly just looked at me one minute — such a look ! 
I do think she believed, for half a minute, I was a 
lunatic ; it most broke me down. An' then if you'd 
seen the way she flew at me, an' hugged, an' scolded, 
an' laughed, an' cried ! " You dear, dreadful, teas- 
ing, precious Home-and-Foreign-Missionary Aunt 
Hetty ! " sez she. " And to think I was so stupid, 
I never guessed what you meant, nor remembered 
how I used to talk, and how I was just bound up, soul 
and body, in St. Johns' and didn't care for anything 
else — I don't mean that I am very different now, only 
the world does seem bigger. Do you remember, 
Aunt Hetty," sez she, smilin' sort o' sober an' sweet, 
"you once told me I was holding my little corner of 



A DOMESTIC M/SS/OJV. 285 

Christ's big world so close to my eyes that I couldn't 
see anything outside the edges ? " 

"'Pears to me I do," sez I, "remember you was 
specially concerned to have the gospel preached to 
decent folks, that could appreciate it." 

" I don't know but I feel a good deal that way 
still," sez Milly, quiet, an' sort o' searching herself. 
" It seems such a dreadful waste of life and energy, 
for good men and women to go to those far-off heath- 
ens, and live and die, only to bring a few miserable 
creatures to a little knowledge of the truth ! " 

" D'you remember just what the disciples' marchin' 
orders was ? " sez I.— Preach the gospel first to Jews, 
then to Gentiles—Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria ; an' the 
Lord didn't stop there, Milly, but He said, clear an' 
plain, *to the ends of the earth and to every crea- 
ture.' " 

"Aunt Hetty," sez Milly, very sober: "I can't 
bear to think of the heathen ! There is such a per- 
fectly dreadful number of them, I get a kind of 
paralysis, the minute I try to realize the multitude of 
them." 

" I know, child ; I remember feeling just that way, 
when I was a girl. My father used to pray, always, 
for the conversion of the heathen world, as if he ex- 
pected it, too ; just as natural as he prayed for his 
children. I could a' prayed for one or two, an' worked 
for a few of 'em ; an' so we children did, but my 
heart wasn't big enough to take in the millions. I 
spose it was unbelief, at the bottom,— doubting of 
God's power and good-will and grace. But I did get 
a little mite cured of that once,— when 'twas family 



286 A DOMESTIC mission: 

worship, too : my father prayed the Lord to keep us 
humble, and make us remember always we all were 
sinners of the gentiles. That sort o' made me feel 
as if those fourteen hundred millions perishin' in the 
dark, were our own kith an' kin, an' I was amost 
heart-broken, thinkin' of our poor ancestors, who 
lived an' died before the disciples an' the apostles an' 
the early Christians got around to give 'em the gospel. 
'S far as I can make out, those Britons an' Angler- 
Saxons an' Picks an' Scots an' Gauls an' Goths 
weren't so very superior to Indians an' Chinese an' 
Japanese nowadays. Mebbe they was a little ahead 
o' the Fiji Islanders, tho' they do say the old Druid 
priests used to offer human sacrifices to their gods 
fifty years ago ; but jest look at those Fiji people 
no7vf They make us Christian Americans blush." 

"Aunt Hetty," sez Milly, her voice a-tremblin' a 
little, " I can't imagine how you could have been will- 
ing to give Cousin Judson up, to go to China, — and 
he your only son." 

I didn't say one word. I couldn't just then, for it 
all came back to me — what I had to go through, be- 
fore I was glad to have a son to send to the heathen, 
to tell them of the Lord Jesus Christ who died for 
them as well as for me. An' seemed to me I could 
understand, a little, the struggle in little Milly's 
heart, that day. I b'lieve she was afraid the Lord 
might want her children, an' she wasn't willin' to 
think so — poor child. I knew jest how it felt. 

Well, James come in soon, an' we had dinner, an' 
James an' Milly seemed so proud an' glad to have me 
there. It made me very thankful, for James was 



A DOMESTIC MISSION. 287 

as nigh as could be, to my own son, — being his dead 
mother was my dead sister Jemima Haselton ; an' 
then Milly, she had to tell James how I teased her, 
an' James laughed, an' then he looked sober, an' sez 
he : " Aunt Hetty, to tell the truth, the heathen lie 
pretty heavy on my heart some times." 

"Are you discouraged about them, James," sez I, 
or do you think the Lord's discouraged ? " 

"Why, no!" sez he, quick an' earnest; "no man, 
who sees what God has been doing for the heathen 
in the last fifty years, has any right to be discouraged. 
I meant that I want to do more than I ever have 
done." 

"I'm sure you have your boys' band," sez Milly, 
"and you always attend all the missionary meetings, 
and do lots of things besides giving freely." 

An' then James, he told me about his David-Liv- 
ingstone-band, of seven bright little chaps, and how 
interested they were, and how they knew as much 
about Livingstone as he did. "And Aunt Hetty," 
sez he, " you ought to see Milly ; she helps more than 
I do, with her singing, and hunting up articles and 
encouraging the little chaps. The reason she won't 
allow she cares so much," sez James, half laughing, 
" is that she has been reading Bleak-House lately, 
and she's afraid somebody might think she is too 
much concerned about Borrioboola Gha. If ever you 
find me sitting in the corner, leaning my head against 
the wall, like poor Mr. Jellyby, you'll know the reason 
why ! " " Nonsense, James," sez Milly, her cheeks 
just like roses ; " Aunt Hetty, you won't believe a 
word he says." 



288 A DOMESTIC mission: 

" Seriously, Aunt Hetty," sez James, " I'm more 
interested in those boys than I can express. I've a 
conviction that some of them are going to be mis- 
sionaries ; that's what I'm praying for and working 
for, at least. I wish sometimes that I had 7ny life to 
live over again ! " 

"James!" sez Milly, "you wouldn't go and leave 
us .? " 

James looked across at her, — so strong an' gentle 
he is, to be sure, — an' sez he : " Why, Milly, wouldn't 
you have married me if I'd been a missionary? " 

" I'm afraid," sez Milly, the tears a-coming to her 
eyes, " I'm afraid you'd never thought of marrying me. 
You'd have gone off to Holyoke or Oxford for a wife, 
or may-be advertised for a real, missionary helpmate. 
I'm sure I'd never have answered that advertise- 
ment ; " sez Milly, half laughin' an' half cryin'. An' 
then we all stopped short an' laughed, thinkin' how 
silly it was to be miserable about what might or 
mightn't have happened. 

But James, he couldn't stop talking of missionary 
work. "The promises are so grand, and so em- 
phatic. Aunt Hetty! I was looking them up the 
other day. Ifs sure to be dofie, and the gospel of 
the kingdom shall be preached in all the world, for 
a witness unto all nations. The Son has asked and 
the Father has given Him the heathen for His inheri- 
tance and the uttermost parts of the earth for His 
possession. All the ends of the earth shall — ^ 



THE SOLDIER'S COMFORT. 289 



THE SOLDIER'S COMFORT. 



My suffering soldier friend : — If I should now 
come and stand beside you, minister to your wants, 
and speak words of tender pity and compassion, to 
remind you that, though far from mother, sister, or 
wife, yet there are many hearts bleeding at the 
thought of your sufferings, would you not believe that 
I really cared for you? You would not, I am sure, 
think that a spirit of mere curiosity would lead one 
to leave home and friends, and all that nature prizes 
most, to minister to you in your suffering and loneli- 
ness. 

But suppose I should say, with such earnestness 
that you would have to believe me : " My poor 
friend, I wish I could suffer in your stead. I wish I 
could lay down my youth, and health, and vigor for your 
restoration, who have fought and bled for the country 
we both love so well.'^ You would then, perhaps, 
feel a little more impressed with the intensity of my 
wish to relieve you. But this suffering in your stead, 
this transfer of pain and loss from one sinful creature 
to another, is, we know, impossible. I can suffer, — 
God knows how many hearts do suffer, — with you ; 
but we are helpless, further than to strive to soothe 
and cheer, and implore the Great Physician to heal 
all your diseases. 
19* 



290 THE SOLDIER'S COMFORT. 

But perhaps you may think : " No one can know 
how much I suffer. The doctors pity me, and so do 
you ; but really it does very little good." 

Did you never hear of any one's curing his own 
heart-ache by sympathy with the greater sufferings of 
others ? I know this may seem a strange prescrip- 
tion, but it has been found a very good one, by many 
who were almost crushed by the great grief God had 
sent upon them. When we see another suffering, 
without a murmur, tenfold more than we do, we feel 
ashamed to think so much of our own misery. 

And there is Ofie, my poor suffering friend, who 
does know the full measure of your sufferings, and 
who was " wounded for our transgressions, and 
bruised for our iniquities;" who also "took our in- 
firmities and bare our sicknesses." He was "even 
obedient unto death " for us, that we might have life 
in Him, and from Him I come now, to tell you how 
His infinite, tender heart yearns pityingly over you, 
longing to have you look at His wounds, that you 
may be healed of your worst wounds — those made 
by sin. 

It is not as a stranger that he looks at you. " He 
knoweth our frame," for He is our Maker, and " He 
remembereth that we are dust." He is at once your 
wisest, truest, most compassionate Friend — the 
" Brother born for adversity," and the " Friend that 
sticketh closer than a brother." See the wonderful 
proof He has given of His love. 

When the whole world was lying under sentence of 
death for sin, Jesus Christ, the Eternal Son of God 
the Father, out of pure pity and love, came down to 



THE SOLDIER'S COMFORT. 291 

suifer and die as our substitute. And this He did, 
when we were enemies to Him and His holy law. 
No higher proof of love can be given than this. A 
few times in the history of the race, men have been 
found willing to die for friends, but no mere man has 
ever yet been found willing to die for enemies. God 
commendeth His love to us in that while we were yet 
sinners, enemies, Christ died for us. You surely 
cannot doubt His love for you, when you consider 
further, what a dreadful death He endured for you. 
It was not an ordinary death of a man gently breath- 
ing out his life among friends and in peace. It was 
a violent, cruel, lingering death, amid the jeers and 
scoffs of enemies. His friends all forsook Him, one 
betrayed Him, another denied Him, and even God, 
His Father, withdrew the light of His countenance 
from Him, extorting that bitterest cry that earth or 
heaven ever heard : " My God, My God, why hast 
Thou forsaken Me ? " 

Do you remember how the whole body of Jesus 
was bruised, and torn, and pierced for us "i You re- 
member, after Pilate, the Roman governor, had 
scourged Him, how soldiers wove a crown of thorns 
and bound it around the Saviour's head. You re- 
member how His tender, compassionate hands, which 
had ever been ready to help and heal, and His weary, 
toil-worn feet, were torn by the nails which fastened 
Him to Calvary's cross. His side was pierced by a 
soldier's spear, until from the wound there came out 
blood and water. Thus, head, and hands, and side 
were bruised and bleeding for you. 

But He did still more than this for you. The bod- 



292 THE SOLDIER'S COMFORT. 

ily agony of crucifixion was the smallest part of His 
suffering. He bore the weight of your sins — the sins 
of all who will believe on Him. The punishment 
of sin lay heavy upon Him. In the garden of Geth- 
semane it pressed Him down to the earth, and 
"being in an agony he prayed more earnestly, and 
His sweat was, as it were, great drops of blood fall- 
ing down to the ground." The penalty of sin was 
the bitterest portion of the cup which His Father 
gave Him to drink. He drank even this for you. 

My poor friend, should not the remembrance of 
the infinite agony of Jesus for your sake, and His 
death from love to your soul, make you almost forget 
your own physical pains, while from your grateful 
heart should burst songs of praise " unto Him who 
hath so loved us as to give Himself for us." 

In the great book of account, the recording angel 
writes down our sins. What a list for but a single 
day ! And think, what must be the record for thou- 
sands of days. And each of these sins deserves God's 
eternal wrath and curse. But look ! One stands be- 
side the book — the " Lamb as it had been slain." It 
is Jesus, the sinner's Friend. He shows you His 
hands and His side, pierced for you, and with tender, 
pitying look. He asks you to believe on Him and love 
Him \ and the moment you do. He lays His bleeding 
hand upon the page and blots out all your sins with 
His own blood. 

Soldier, soldier, oh ! trust in Jesus. Repent, con- 
fess, and forsake your sins, and love Him who hath 
so loved you as to give His own life for you. Then, 
whatever you may be called to suffer, you will be 



THE SOLDIER'S COMFORT. 293 

happy, for Jesus pities, soothes and comforts all who 
love Him far more than does a mother her suffering 
child. *' He healeth the broken in heart and bindeth 
up their wounds." 

May this same Jesus, " who ever liveth to make in- 
tercession," send His Holy Spirit with these words, 
and show you infinitely more of His love, and your 
need of Him, than any fellow-sinner can ! And unto 
the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, be all the glory for- 
evermore. Amen. 



294 SOLDIER, A LETTER FOR YOU. 



SOLDIER, A LETTER FOR YOU 



My Brother and Comrade : — Will you listen to 
a few words from one who is also a soldier, very weak, 
and entirely unworthy of so high a calling; yet who 
is, by the grace and good-will of the Captain, still 
kept in the ranks, and enabled to fight, in the sure 
hope of a victor's crown. 

My Captain knows you well, and has loved you 
longer and better than your mother, or your dearest 
friend. He loved you from all eternity, and He is 
now looking on you with pity. Do you know Him, 
my comrade, do you love this Captain of our salva- 
tion, who gave his cheek to the smiters, His back to 
the scourge. His soul unto death, and His body to 
the cross — for you, if you will only love Him ? 

Near two thousand years ago, a band of soldiers 
came one night into a garden, called Gethsemane. 
They bear lanterns and torches, and are armed with 
deadly weapons, being sent to seize, as a criminal, 
the Holy One of God. At the first sight of Him, as 
He comes forth from the darkness, shining in the 
majestic innocence which proclaims Him God as well 
as man, all, even the traitor Judas, with the soldiers, 
awe-struck in His presence, go backward and fall to 
the ground. And yet they have the wicked courage 
to seize Him and lead Him away, " as a Iamb to the 



SOLDIER, A LETTER FOR YOU. 295 

slaughter." They bring Him to the judgment-hall, 
and, calling together the whole band, in cruel mock- 
ery they put on Him the purple robe of majesty, and 
give a reed to Him for a royal sceptre. Soldiers 
hands weave the crown of thorns, and bind it round 
His head, and smite Him with a reed, and buffet 
Him They spit upon Him, and mocking, bend the 
knee, and cry : " Hail ! King of the Jews ! " Then 
they strip Him of the royal purple, put His own gar- 
ments upon Him, and lead Him away to Calvary. 
There they crucify Him. Four soldiers drive through 
the quivering flesh the rending nails, less hard and 
cruel than those hearts and hands for whose sin the 
- iron entered into His soul." Sitting down, the sol- 
diers watch Him there. They see Him bear the 
wrath of God in the sinner's stead, and yet these 
sinful soldiers dare to mock His agony, and offer to 
Him vinegar to drink, crying : " If Thou be the Son 
of God, save Thyself !" In view of the cross, they 
part His garments among themselves, and cast lots 
for the seamless vesture, type of the spotless robe of 
righteousness, without beginning and without end, 
which He wrought out for us in His death. They 
listen to His earth-rending, heaven-piercing cry for 
His Father; they hear His dying prayer for His 
murderers. 

O hard and stony hearts ! have they no pity, no 
love? Jesus says: "Father, forgive them, for they 
know not what they do." 

And when His head is bowed in death, a soldier 
thrusts his sword into His side, and from the wound 
flow out blood and water. Again, by the sepulchre, 



296 SOLDIER, A LETTER FOR YOU. 

where the broken body of our Lord was laid, a guard 
of soldiers watched until the early Sabbath dawn, 
when the Mighty Angel, at whose coming "the 
keepers did quake, and become as dead men," came 
down and rolled away the stone from the door of the 
sepulchre. Then the same jfesus, who had prayed on 
the cross for His murderers, arose from the dead, and 
now ever liveth to make intercession for us. 

Comrade, can you think of all this, — of the suffer- 
ings and death of this great Captain, without feeling 
that you, as well as those other soldiers, have an in- 
terest, aye, that you have a responsibility in His 
death ? 

Remember that, if you are not a "soldier of the 
cross," you are still in arms against Him, — you are 
serving Sin, and wearing the uniform of the Devil. 
You have been by the holy law of God court-mar- 
tialed, tried and convicted as a traitor to your King, a 
deserter from your Captain, and a rebel against 
heaven. What hope is there for you, when your case 
is in the hands of One omnipotent to punish unto 
the full measure of your deserts ? Ah ! blessed be 
God, that, though your King could not suffer your 
awful crime to go unpunished, your Captain, in love 
for you, offered Himself as a substitute for you. And 
He now holds out to you 2i full pardon, sealed by the 
blood which He shed on the cross, by means of the 
blessing of the Spirit on these words of a fellow-sinner. 
Go to this great Captain, my dear comrade : ask 
Him, for His mercy's sake, to be your substitute, and 
to make you His true and fearless soldier. Confess 
your guilt, ask Him to wash it away from your soul^ 



SOLDIER, A LETTER FOR YOU. 297 

and to make you sure that he has offered a full atone- 
ment for you on the cross. Pray for the Holy Spirit 
to teach you, and to give you the humble spirit of a 
little child. Jesus is waiting, He is longing to have 
you and all your comrades join His glorious company. 
He knows your heart as well as he knew the hearts 
of those for whom He prayed in His dying hour. 
He has a brother's hand, to clasp yours in your mor- 
tal weakness, a brother's heart to comfort you in your 
sufferings, as well as a Mighty Arm to rescue you 
from Hell and Death. Oh ! enlist under Him, pledge 
your heart, and soul, and body to His service, pray- 
ing Him to keep you "faithful unto death." I am 
sure you will never be sorry for it. 

My comrade, if you are already a " soldier of the 
cross," be mindful of your Captain. Remember how 
He " stood guard " for you, how He gave watchword 
and countersign for you, when the sword of God's 
justice was pointed at your soul. He answered for 
you in the roll-call, and pledged His life for yours, 
and all because He loves you unto death. He died in 
your place as a deserter, a rebel, and a traitor ; He 
bore the scoffs of men, the malice of the Devil, and 
the wrath of God, that you might go free ; nay, 
more, that He might thus purchase for you a sure 
victory over sin, and a seat with Him upon His 
throne in glory. Can you ever be too brave and 
faithful in His cause ? 

You know His first word of command : " Only be- 
lieve.'''' His second is : ^''Follow w^." He has left a 
manual for you. He has given such clear and sure 
directions that you cannot mistake them, if you only 



298 SOLDIER, A LETTER FOR YOU. 

ask the Holy Spirit to take His orders and repeat 
them to you. Be true to your colors, and keep your 
eye on your Captain. "Standing, each man in his 
place, by His standard," "endure hardness as a good 
soldier of Christ Jesus." Do not be ashamed of 
your uniform and the name of Christ crucified. 
" Take unto you the whole armor of God," and re- 
member that all the saints in heaven have worn it 
during their earthly warfare, and have borne the re- 
proach of Jesus of Nazareth. Stand up for Jesus 
wherever you are, against sin and Satan, and the evil 
world. Your Captain's eye is on you, and His arm 
is ready to help you in your hour of need. Only " be 
faithful unto death," and then your Captain will 
surely report you at the great headquarters, and so a 
glorious promotion and a victor's crown will be yours 
at the end of the battle. 



INDELIBLE INK. 299 



INDELIBLE INK. 



" Yes, Sue, if you can wait just a minute. I'm 
sure there are some clothes of Gerard's, that will do 
for your Samaritan box. Dear me ! there's not much 
leisure, with half a dozen children like mine. I 
never did see such boys, for getting into scrapes." 

Helen Fletcher, round, plump, sweet and pleasant- 
voiced, did not look as if the world went very hard 
with her, notwithstanding her six children, and her 
husband, who she declared was the greatest boy of 
them all. Sue Harrison, Gerard Fletcher's only sis- 
ter, seated herself resignedly in the pleasant nursery, 
while Helen, still talking, opened a cedar closet, and 
pulled down some packages of clothing, carefully 
pinned up in linen and camphor. 

" Now see, Sue ; these clothes are just as good as 
ever they were, but since Gerard will persist in get- 
ting stout, in spite of misfortunes and hard times, 
he'll have to take the consequences. If a woman 
grows stout, she can have her dresses made over,— 
match the stuff or something, make combination suits 
and economize ; but it is just a hopeless case when a 
man outgrows his coats and vests and trousers. So 
here, these good clothes must go to somebody else, 
and since your Samaritan box wants them, why, you 
may as well have them. And here is a set of shirts 



300 INDELIBLE INK. 

— very good, but dear me, they won't begin to fit 
Gerard now. If Gerard doesn't stop soon, he'll nev- 
er be able to go deer hunting in Virginia this fall. 
He'll soon be a subject for Banting." 

" Well, I'm thankful," began Sue Harrison, " that 
my husband doesn't make an object of himself, — in 
that way. One can stand it in a brother." 

" My patience ! " exclaimed Helen Fletcher, " Ge- 
rard never looked so handsome in his life as he does 
now; and he's so tall, he can afford to weigh i8o, or 
200 even, without being too heavy. I should think 
you wouldn't object to your husband's following his 
example." 

" There now, Helen — there is no use in our fighting 
over our husbands ; mine suits me, and yours, I sup- 
pose, suits you. But what are you doing now ? " 
Helen Fletcher was seated, pen in hand, and indeli- 
ble-ink-bottle beside her, carefully erasing the name, 
" Gerard Hazeltine Fletcher," from one garment after 
another. " That tailor always will mark Gerard's 
clothing in such immense letters ! " 

" Why, on earth, do you go to that trouble t " 
asked Sue, lazily. 

" For several reasons," said Helen, coolly. '' I am 
not particularly anxious that Mr. G. H. Fletcher get 
the credit of giving away his wardrobe, and moreover 
I don't want strange fellows to go around this coun- 
try personating my husband." 

Sue laughed lightly, saying : " I never trouble my- 
self about such a thing." 

" Jane," said Mrs. Fletcher, to her seamstress in 
the next room, *' will you bring me a hot iron from 



INDELIBLE INK. 30I 

the laundry, to press these marks ? But tell me, Sue, 
something about this box, and what the Good Samar- 
itans do with the clothing and supplies." 

Sue began telling the story of the poor and needy 
—the story so painfully familiar in these days, when 
even those who have been until lately generous 
helpers so often need assistance themselves. Eager- 
ly and earnestly she talked, and Helen listened and 
worked, erasing the marks ; while Jane pressed the 
hot iron upon them, to make sure that the erasure 
should be indelible. The work was nearly done, 
when the front door was opened by a latch key— a 
confused noise was heard, in the hall and on the 
stairs, and Gerard's voice saying quietly : " Not in 
there ! in this room ; don't frighten his mother." 

Helen started to her feet, and was out in the hall 
just as her husband was carrying Frank, her six-year- 
old boy, into the next room. 

" The pony ran away with him, and threw him off. 
He's not much hurt \ see, dear. Don't look so white, 
little mother." 

Gerard Fletcher had all his life been used to acci- 
dents, and Helen had grown accustomed to take care 
of bruises and broken bones ; but always, until she 
knew just what had happened, a sickening fear took 
possession of her. 

The doctor followed close on Gerard Fletcher's 
steps, and found no serious injury — the collar bone 
broken, and some bruises. " He'll be all right in six 
weeks, and ready for another tumble, Mrs. Fletcher. 
Your husband and your boys ought to join an acci- 



302 INDELIBLE INK. 

dent insurance ; you'd have quite an income from 
the payments." 

" No use, doctor," answered Gerard, gaily ; " they 
know us too well, and would ask too high rates to 
make it pay, for us." 

Sue Harrison had been making herself generally 
useful, while Jane came in and dressed Frank, her 
special pet, and scolded him merrily for not holding 
on better. 

" Well, Helen, if I can't do anything more, dear, 
I will go home," said Mrs. Harrison, as she stood 
with Helen by Frank's bed, where he lay then, smil- 
ing up at his mother and his favorite aunt. 

"Thank you, ever so much. Sue; you have helped 
me a great deal, but, now that baby's quiet with Jane, 
I can stay with Frank, and we shall manage splendidly. 
If you'll tell Gerard to wrap up those clothes — he's such 
an excellent packer — they will be all ready when you 
can send for them. But be sure you don't send any- 
thing with his name unerased ! I finished nearly all ; 
but there is one suit, I think, not marked, — unless 
you'll finish the work." 

" Very well, I'll see to it carefully," said Sue, " and 
thank you very much on the part of the Good Samar- 
itans, one and all." 

" Mamma, I want to go shooting deers and turkeys, 
too ; I'm sure I could shoot just like papa. I've seen 
him lots of times, just this way,— bang ! bang ! bang ! 
You'd like me to bring you home a real, splen- 
did, big turkey for Thanksgiving, and lots of little 
deers' heads to hang up, like those papa brought last 
year 1 " 



INDELIBLE INK. 303 

Helen Fletcher's sweet, bright face smiled down at 
the eager one beside her. Phil was her eldest, a 
handsome, restless, impetuous boy of thirteen ; not a 
marvel in the way of study, for the latent ambition 
of his nature had never been stirred by words that 
breathe and thoughts that burn. Now, the instinct 
of pursuit, the eagerness for the race, the spirit of 
strife and conquest, lay only in the direction of 
cricket and hunting. " What would become of all 
the learning that is to go into this curly head this 
year, if you should run away from school just in the 
beginning of the term ? And then, Phil, how do you 
think I could do without papa and you, my big boy, 
— my right arm when papa's away ? " 

" That's so, mamma ; forgive me ! I never thought 
of that," said Phil, manfully. " I won't say one more 
word about it now. If you were willing, I was going 
to ask father, but it would be awful mean." 

" I want you to get me a nice bow, and practice 
archery with me next month, Phil ; and we'll have a 
little archery party on grandpa's grounds, when we 
go out there for a week, when papa is away." 

" Oh ! that'll be jolly, and you'll ask all the boys 
and their sisters, and give a prize, won't you, mamma ?" 

" We'll talk to papa about that, and see what he 
can do ; perhaps we'll have it on papa's birthday, 
even if he is not here ; he'd like us to have a pleas- 
ant time, shooting at home, while he is shooting 
away. But mind, don't have any more broken collar 
bones or sprained ankles before that time, for it 
might upset your pleasure party." 

" We'll be dreadfully careful, mother ! I'll tell Jack 



304 INDELIBLE INK. 

and Gove and Fred, and we won't do a thing that's 
risky. I know it'll be comfortable for you not to be 
so worried about us, too." Helen laughed, knowing 
too well the spirit of boys, to be at all convinced that 
they would not, without a moment's thought risk 
their heads and heels a dozen times before the arch- 
ery party. However, after papa had been consulted, 
among the chorus of eager voices that evening, he 
gave his unqualified approval, and told mamma to 
get the prettiest bow and quiver she could find, for 
a prize. 



11. 

Away up in the Shenandoah mountains is a rough 
log-house, where live the Ervines, a family of hunt- 
ers and farmers, — quite as much and as many of the 
former as of the latter, — for, while they work their 
mountain farm in summer, they all hunt in the win- 
ter, and fish all the year round. Sturdy, honest, stal- 
wart fellows they are ; sound in mind and body — all 
except Harry, who came out of the late unpleasant- 
ness with a constitution shattered by fever and hard 
marches. Five years ago, John, the second brother, 
married Nannie Gordon, the orphan child of Robert 
and Elsie Gordon, Scotch settlers who died during 
the war, leaving their little daughter without guardian 
or money in this country. 

Robert Gordon declared, before his death, that 
there were lands and kin, in Scotland, belonging to 
him ; and his great regret, in dying and leaving his 



IN-DELIBLE INK. 305 

little motherless child, was that he had, in wilfulness 
and \vaywardness, cut loose from those who would be 
her natural guardians. 

" Dinna ye fret anent yon, i' the noo, gin the Lord's 
forgi'en ye for that, and for a' the sins, Robbie Gor- 
don," said kind-hearted old dame Ervine. " While 
we've a poun' corn meal, or an oat cake, or a sup por- 
ridge, your lassie shall na gae hungry; an' as for 
teaching her to fear God and keep His command- 
ments, I'll do that, Robert Gordon, mon. Mair nor 
you — I'll nae gie my word. Bulk larning's hard to 
win i' the noo, for the gude scholars maist a' deed i' 
this bluidy war, but I'll do by her as I wad ye suld 
by mine ain, gin I were in your place, Robbie, mon. 
Noo, say your prayers, an' leave your worldly cares i' 
the hands o' the Lord, wha kens a' ye tell Him, an' 
taks tent o' ye when ye hae no thocht o' Him." 

" God bless you, dame, ye're a gude frien' ; an' may 
the Lord reward you, for I can na ! " 

So, Nannie Gordon grew up in the old log house, a 
lovely, womanly girl, sweet and true and simple- 
hearted, like a lily among thorns. At least so Harry 
Ervine thought, when he came home, wounded and ill. 
Poor Harry, he had a sore heart to carry for many a 
year, for John his brother won and wore the bonny lily 
that each admired so much. Last year, the old mother 
died ; and now, when Gerard Fletcher and his two 
friends tramped up to the Ervines' door, Nannie and 
her baby Maggie were the only women folk within 
five miles. *#####* 
**=**##*. i^ 

20 



3o6 PINE KNOTS FROM OLD CAROLINA. 



PINE KNOTS FROM OLD CAROLINA. 



I. 

It is a lovely November day. The soft, pure, blue 
sky is as serene, the sun shines as brightly on the 
unnamed graves of the thousands who died in yon- 
der fields, as if there had never been sin, war and 
bloodshed on the earth. It is with no wish to revive 
bitter memories, or to open old wounds which have 
healed over — though not without scars, — that I wan- 
der among these scenes, and seek to take my reader 
with me. North and South are brothers ; the family 
ties have never been broken ; and over the graves of 
Garfield and Grant we have clasped hands again in a 
grasp too warm, — God grant ! to be again sundered 
by scheming demagogues. 

Yesterday, I came upon this cemetery unawares. 
It was a Sabbath morning, and we were going to 
church. Maurice said : " We will start a little early, 
and take a walk in the cemetery before service ; " so, 
walking and talking of many things, and asking no 
questions as to our destination, I walked on until we 
halted before a gate. I said : " Why, surely this is a 
cemetery, isn't it.? " With the answer, came a sud- 
den rush of recollection, linking Salisbury with Ander- 
sonville in most painful association. Yonder tall 



PINE KNOTS FROM OLD CAROLINA. 307 

monument to the memory of those who sleep their 
last sleep, but under shadow of the country's flag, 
points us to the plateau where eleven thousand un- 
named soldiers lie on the crest of a slope. 

The next day I made a longer visit there, — the 
one-armed, soldierly superintendent accompanying me 
explaining most courteously, and giving all informa- 
tion requested. The cemetery is inclosed on three 
sides with walls, over which rose bushes and ivy 
climb, and trees with ivy-covered trunks stand guard 
around the dead. An old negro is busy, raking the 
fallen leaves from the graves. There are immense 
piles of russet and brown ; one cannot but remember 
how it is written — " We all do fade as a leaf ! " 

"In these trenches, madam, are buried eleven 
thousand, seven hundred Union soldiers, who died in 
the prison-pen over yonder, and were carried here 
and buried by their comrades, detailed for that pur- 
pose. You may remember there was a Mr. R. 

of the New York , who was taken prisoner 

and confined there. He took the names of four 
thousand, five hundred, who to his knowledge, died 
while he was a prisoner. He escaped, in company 
with three others, and reported these names to the Sec- 
retary of War, and those papers are on file at Washing- 
ton now. That is the only record we have of those who 
are in these trenches, and of course their graves are not 
known — only the fact that those soldiers are buried 
here. You see these blocks of stone. They mark 
the sections running from the northwestern to the 
northeastern corner of the plot, from one to eighteen." 
The sod is smooth and green as a meadow. No 



3o8 PINE KNOTS FROM OLD CAROLINA. 

mound or hillock distinguishes one trench from 
another. Along the sides of the space where the 
unnamed dead are buried, are some who were brought 
here from other parts of the State, many of whose 
names were marked on a rude head-board which the 
government has exchanged for a more lasting memo- 
rial in stone. These also are numbered. Kentucky, 
Ohio, Indiana, Michigan and New York have fur- 
nished them. But the graves of these soldiers, known 
and recognized as belonging to their several regi- 
ments and States, do not appeal to the heart as does 
that solid square of unnamed, unknown graves. 

We walked around the burial ground, — God's acre, 
sown with precious seed, in bitter weeping. I cannot 
but think the fields are white unto the harvest, — 
God's harvest of peace and good-will to all people 
and tongues and nations. 

" On Fame's eternal camping-ground, 
Their silent tents are spread ; 
And Glory guards, with solemn round, 
The bivouac of the dead." 



II. 

This afternoon, I walked towards the cemetery, to 
make a longer visit. On the way there, I noticed a 
forlorn old building, weather-stained and unpainted, 
but which had a sort of belfry as indication of some 
special use. From an adjoining house, as I passed, 
rushed a throng of boys and girls, leaping and sing- 
ing, cutting all manner of capers and antics, — boys 



PINE KNOTS FROM OLD CAROLINA. 309 

turning somersaults into and over a ditch, chasing 
one another and enjoying themselves with an abandon 
unknown to any but themselves — children of nature. 
I was amused and interested with their contortions 
and frolics, all good-natured and with entire absence 
of teasing. And, as I paused by the fence, I asked 
one of the little chaps if this were a school. 

" Yes marm, a graded school," answered he, glibly, 
with evident pride. 

I asked them a few questions, which they seemed 
greatly pleased to answer, and passed on, only to 
meet an astonishing spectacle — a small darkey car- 
ried by four of his comrades, one or two catching 
hold of each arm and leg, the others dancing, shout- 
ing and laughing, and having the best time possible 
over their successful capture, interspersing their fun 
with encouraging remarks of this sort : " Aint you 
gwine to get a lickin' ! You'll cotch it, sure's you're 
a live coon." 

"Bring him along, Mary," called a clear voice 
from the school-room door, where the teacher stood 
watching the proceedings. 

I couldn't possibly help laughing at the ludicrous 
procession, and watched with great interest to see 
how they got their prisoner over the fence. " What's 
the matter?" I asked a little fellow, just to hear 
what he would say. 

"Oh! Sam Markelo, he done run away from 
school, an' missus tole us to fotch him back. We's 
aint goin' to let go o' him, I reckon. He's gin us a 
right smart run, he has," — grinning. They didn't 
loosen their hold of him a second, and I rather think 



310 PINE KNOTS FROM OLD CAROLINA. 

he had some prett}' severe treatment before he was 
deposited at the teacher's feet. 

As I walked on, I noticed a little cottage standing 
back from the road a little way, in front of which 
stood a middle-aged negro woman, shading her eyes 
-with her hand and looking towards the school and 
.the refractory — ****#=* 



FOREIGN FRA G ME NTS, 311 



FOREIGN FRAGMENTS. 
I. 

MARBURG, ON THE LAHN. 

Some one has said : " When you have a pleasure, 
share it," but how shall I send over the wide waters 
the picture which I have seen to-day ? Artists have 
much to say about local coloring, lights and atmos- 
phere j and even our untrained eyes appreciate 
readily the difference between a sun-lit and a moon- 
lit view — between the brilliance of a day in June, and 
the soft, dreamy haze of Indian Summer, — between 
Hyde Park in November fogs, and the same in the 
height of the " Season." 

Here in Germany, the differences seem to lie more 
in the nature and character of the peoples than in 
times and places. 

Let me try to paint for you the pictures I have seen 
in my ramble to-day. An old, irregularly built town, 
by a river side, with narrow streets winding around 
the hill, and a narrower street turning through an 
archway, up a short, rough climb, to the Castle on 
the summit — literally and in verity the Schlossberg, 
which looks down, in grim and solitary silence upon 
the life below. Come, walk with me, through the 
streets of this queer, old town, and see through my 
eyes, if you will. 

Leaving the green pastures and still waters of the 



312 FOREIGN FRAGMENTS. 

Lahn behind us, we walk from our lodgings in the 
Bahnhofstrasse, through the main street of the town, 
passing the Elizabethan Kirche, and then take one of 
the steep, narrow streets winding up the hill. Queer, 
quaint old houses, with roofs of many angles, and 
frequent dormer-windows, — always picturesque, — 
stand along the scanty sidewalk. At times and 
places, the two feet we ask for passage disappears 
entirely. Down the hill, come peasant women, with 
weather-beaten faces, and curious little, black, pyra- 
midal structures on the tops of their heads, tied under 
the chin. They wear dresses whose circumference at 
the hips is astonishing, while their length reminds one 
of the fate of the old dame in the story, whose frock 
was stolen and shortened by naughty boys, so that, 
on attiring herself therein, she was forced, in her 
mental quandary, to exclaim : *' If this indeed be I, 
as I suppose it be " — *=**** 



11. 

THE FACKEL ZUG. 

Last evening, we watched with a good deal of in- 
terest one of the sights peculiar to a University-town, 
— a torch-light procession, in honor of the Professor 
who served as Rector during the last University year. 
The hour named for the procession to form, at the 
Court House or Town Hall, was eight o'clock, but, as 
we were told, the Students are always a little ahead 



FOREIGN FRAGMENTS. 3^3 

of time on this occasion, not taking the " academic 
quarter-hour," which marks the Professors' want of 
military punctuality at lectures. We had invited a 
number of friends to share our windows, which over- 
looked the main line of the procession towards 
Professor A.'s house, but the torches had nearly 
passed, before they arrived. 

It was a pretty and curious sight, — the students 
wearing the colors of the various University Societies 
to which they belong, and bearing banners and flam- 
ing torches through the dim streets. Certain members 
in each Society are noticeable for their old-time cos- 
tume, familiar to Americans in the pictures of the 
Father of his Country. Some wear highly embroi- 
dered scarlet coats, with military-looking trappings. 
Each Society seems to have its own band of music, 
and the notes of one sometimes overlap those of the 
preceding. 

When they arrived before the Professor's house, 
they halted and gave three hearty cheers for the Uni- 
versity and for the last year's Rector, who was much 
beloved, and, after his appearance on the balcony 
and the delivery of his speech of thanks, this part 
of the fun was over. Between six hundred and seven 
hundred students took part in this Fackel Zug ; and 
on the homeward march the last were first, and the 
first, last. 

The remainder of the programme was a return to 
the Saal Bau, the Opera House and Concert Hall of 
the city, and probably a close contest between the 
members of the different Societies, as to their ability 
to assimilate the product of the Brauerei. Serious- 



314 FOREIGN FRAGMENTS. 

ly, this beer-drinking is a custom which, notwithstand- 
ing all that has been said and written in its favor, 
seems to me to be one of the unfavorable signs for 
.Germany's future. When a University student trains 
himself to drink twenty bottles of beer in twenty-four 
hours, — how to study and be sober becomes a prob- 
lem which his perturbed brain seeks in vain to solve. 
But I would by no means say that this is a fact with 
the generality of the Marburg students. The lectures 
of many Professors are well attended by courteous, 
attentive young men. * * # * * 



III. 

THE JERUSALEM CHAMBER. 

I SUPPOSE that all have heard of Westminster Ab- 
bey, one of the oldest and most interesting churches 
in the world, but perhaps some may not know of the 
Jerusalem Chamber, in this same * old Abbey, — a 
square room on the right, as you enter the Abbey by 
the door — the usual entrance, now. 

In this room, to which admission is ordinarily given 
only by a note from the dean or one of the canons, a ^ 
good many remarkable scenes have occurred. When 

"we went there, with a note from Canon , a few 

months ago for the first time, the Revisers of the Bible 
were at their labors.- You know how much interest 
almost every one has felt, both in America and Eng- 
land, in the Revised New Testament, and how much 



FOREIGN FRAGMENTS. 3^5 

has been written and said both for and against it. So 
it was very interesting to us to see the long table, with 
a dozen or fifteen chairs around it, and all sorts of 
Bibles, of different languages and many dates, lying, 
upon it, just as they were when the clergymen and 
scholars had ceased using them at five o'clock of the 
day before, and in readiness for them to resume the 
work within ten mintes after we left. 

Perhaps it will be interesting to you to know— it 
certainly is, to me-that I am writing this little sketch 
of the Jerusalem Chamber with a quill-pen which one 
of the Revisers used in the work to which so many 
years, and so much loving labor and desire for God's 
alory, have been consecrated. I do not know which 
of the number wrote with this particular quill, but I 
do know that a certain plain, green glass inkstand, 
which is in my possession, is one which the Bishop of 
Gloucester— one of the most faithful laborers in the 
work of revision— was accustomed to use when re- 
quiring to mark passages in red ink. I fancy that 
the reason why the stand had been discarded by his 
Grace was the loss of the lid, for the sediment of the 
red ink is quite thick in the bottom. 

I would not have you think, however, that we imi- 
tated the Goths and Vandals, by helping ourselves to 

these relics * ^ ^ * 

******** 



$i6 FOREIGN FRAGMENTS. 

IV. 

LORD mayor's day. 

The spectacle of Lord Mayor's day is something 
worth seeing. It is, by general consent, considered 
the great city's holiday, — a more notable day for 
London town than the Queen's birthday. Only one 
year the Lord Mayor reigns, but truly, for that year, 
he is the great man of London, out-ranking even Roy- 
alty itself, as chief representative of the dignity of 
metropolitan institutions and time-honored pageant. 

It would be tedious to describe in detail the pro- 
cession, comprising the numerous city guilds, the fire- 
men and the boys of the Thames training-school and 
ship, and a fine display of regimental bands, besides 
detachments of the Guards and the Victoria Rifles. 
Some of the groups were very peculiar — mediaeval 
indeed, and new to the time of Wellington and the 
nineteenth century. 

The chief feature of the procession, this year, was 
the display, on the way to Westminster, of the Amer- 
ican flag, specially sent for by the new Lord Mayor, 
which, as one of the English papers says, was " by a 
happy inspiration " carried in the place of honor, im- 
mediately preceding the Sheriff's carriage, and es- 
corted by a guard from the Royal London Militia. 
When the procession arrived at Westminster, the 
flag was carried into the palace yard, and enthusias- 
tically saluted by the multitude, the various bands 



FOREIGN FRAGMENTS. 317 

in the procession playing, in concert, the American 
National Anthem. * =* * * =»^ * 



HYDE PARK. 



In the long twilight of these summer Sabbaths, 
Hyde Park presents a strange scene — many sharp 
contrasts. Crossing the drive, which, on other days, 
would be crowded with carriages, my friend said, 
quietly : " You see, it is Sunday, — the carriages stand 
outside, while the ladies and gentlemen take their 
stroll in the Park, instead of a drive." 

Scattered over the broad acres of greensward were 
hundreds, perhaps thousands of men, women and 
children, some lying in careless ease on the sweet- 
scented grass, children running around, lovers walk- 
ing arm in arm. Turning towards the first large 
crowd, where we saw a banner, a platform and a 
table, we drew near to the speaker. 

" It is Mr. C, the evangelist of Hyde Park Hall," 
said my friend. " He is going to America, next week. 
He has done a great work here." It was not hard to 
believe that^ of such an intensely earnest speaker. 
Every pulse seemed thrilling — every nerve and fibre 
seemed under extreme tension, as though his whole 
frame were uttering : " Now, therefore, brethren, we 
beseech you, as ambassadors for Christ, be ye recon- 
ciled to God." On the banner, near the speaker 



3i8 FOREIGN FRAGMENTS. 

were the words : " Where shall I spend Eternity ? " 
The group of listeners at this stand was attentive and 
thoughtful, and seemed impressed by the earnestness 
of the speaker, and the solemnity of the subject. 
He dwelt on the universality of the belief in a future 
life, illustrating it by reference to the customs of the 
heathen nations in burying their dead — the red men 
of the West burying their warriors with tomahawk, 
bow and arrows, for them to use in the hunting 
grounds of the Great Spirit. 

Every pleasant afternoon through the week, the 
drive in the park is thronged with beautiful carriages 
whose occupants are lords and ladies and other mem- 
bers of the gay London society. But the park is a 
gathering place for many besides the higher classes. 
Through the past weeks, there have been gatherings 
of a political character — speakers 'on the Irish ques- 
tion, not communists either, striving to set the sore 
need and trouble of the hard-pressed, ' despairing 
people before the minds of those who might hear 
and heed ; reviews of the Guard ; parade of the 
Highlanders, and other displays. * * * 



VI. 

FROM RIO TO PETROPOLIS. 



Leaving the city at two o'clock, in the ferry, we 
kept up the harbor, fifteen miles, passing islands 
decked with palms, bananas and acacias, and landed, 



FOREIGN FRAGMENTS. 3^9 

in about an hour and a quarter, at the little town of 
Mana. Here we took the cars and one hour's ride, 
through low and marshy ground to the foot of the 
Serra ; then left the rail for the post-coach which 
runs regularly from this station. 

The drive was delightful, in aw open diligeiice, drawn 
by four mules on a full gallop, over a road as smooth 
as a floor, winding zigzag up the mountains through 
the wildest scenery ; while below us lay the valley, 
broken into a billowy sea of green hills, and the har- 
bor, with the coast-range beyond, growing soft and 
mellow in the afternoon sunshine. Palms, acacias, 
and tree-ferns; parasitic growths, with abundant 
bloom of the purple Quaresina, the Thunbergia 
vines-* ******* 



VII. 

BUENOS AYRES. 



One day we went into an image shop, in the win- 
dow of which were figures of saints and the virgin, 
and all manner of carved, ornamental rosaries. As 
we entered, we saw two workmen, busy with their 
tools, finishing a delicately carved crucifix. Beside 
them lay portions of other figures, — the whole scene, 
and the purely business way in which they worked at 
their trade, recalling very forcibly the words of Isaiah 
about the makers of idols. 

There were many different styles and sorts of im- 



320 FOREIGN FRAGMENTS. 

ages, all of reputed saints in the Roman Catholic 
Church. One was a soldierly looking figure, — the 
palmer's cape and girdle showing that it represented 
one who had been a pilgrim, in the old days when a 
journey to Jerusalem was certain to win the title of 
saint for the pilgrim. 'St. Roque seemed to be a very 
favorite figure. He is always seen as a vigorous, 
athletic man, with a worn, earnest face, and one hand 
lifting the cloak from his knee, where a deep wound 
appears. I do not know the legend connected with it- 



VIII. 

SUNNY MEMORIES OF MENTONE. 

Jean came with the donkeys, Monte Bello and 
Elanchette, early one sunshiny afternoon in April, 
and we started for an ascent to the chapel of the 
Madonna dell' Annunciata, which crowns one of the 
hill-tops towards the Western bay. 

We rode through the main street of the little town 
which runs along the Quay, past. the Hotel de Grande 
Bretagne, the circulating library, the English church, 
the Hotel des Anglais, and the Grande Hotel de la 
Paix ; then past the Hotel Victoria, the Hotel de 
Mediterranee, and buildings formerly the homes 
of the Italian nobles, but long since become the 
dwellings of the peasants j next over the bridge of 

the C , always picturesque with its crowd of blan- 

chisseuses standing in the clear, shallow water, busily 



FOREIGN FRAGMENTS. 321 

beating the unfortunate linen committed to their ten- 
der mercies, while they keep up a lively exclamatory 
song, ending in musical open vowels, which mark the 
mixed speech of the Italian peasants, — although far 
enough from pure Tuscan, so much more bearable 
than the French chatter, or English jargon. 

We take the T road, turning sharply to the 

right and ride for half a mile or more, on a beauti- 
fully graded road, past a garden of some florist and 
horticulturist, beside an old ruined aqueduct, — one 
of the many traces of the ancient Romans, and then, 
entering a narrow, walled lane to the left, we begin a 
steady ascent. 

Here Blanchette, an undersized donkey, too small 
for any but children, began a series of evolutions with 
her rider, to indicate her unwillingness to mount with 
her then-existing load. So, my friend and I changed 
donkeys, and, after a number of expostulations, 
threats, and pommelings administered by Jean, who 
brought up the rear, she condescended to proceed. 

We continued our upward way, now winding, like a 
rough-hewn stairway, up the terraces, and then pass- 
ing through the olive yards, and between banks of 
delicious wild violets whose sweetness is a perpetual 
temptation to me to stop and pick them, even at the 
beginning of a long ride. They grow over whole 
hill-sides, with no more care from man than are given 
to our buttercups or dandelions. In this sunny land, 
these untrained beauties of the South, free as sun- 
shine and the dews of heaven, make every step a 
gladness, and life a thing not of thorns and briars 
only, nor yet a vale of tears, however fiercely the 
21 



322 FOREIGN FRAGMENTS. 

wild winds may rave and the tempests break over our 
heads, — bearing away lives sweeter and dearer to us 
than violets in winter-time. And, through the green- 
ness of the unfenced fields, the poppies raise their 
scarlet heads, and wild anemones, immense butter- 
cups, and crimson-tipped daisies spring up and bloom 
and pass away ; and everywhere the ivy clings to the 
gray walls, and the dainty ferns stretch their tiny 
arms out of the moist earth. 

Primroses were past and gone, — the valley of 
Saint Jacques is the favorite place with them, and 
the delicate forget-me-nots. Stars of Bethlehem, 
growing on rough, unlovely stems, lift their lovely 
lilac in the wildest places, and bring many a precious 
thought, unspoken, of the land so like this sunny 
country, with its olives and figs and vines. 

But I forget that we are upward bound to the 
chapel of the Lady of the Annunciation. We come 
at last, after a long ascent, perilous to any but sure- 
footed little donkeys, to an open arch, and then find, 
along our way, a succession of shrines to different 
saints. In the frequent pilgrimages made, in palmier 
days of Papal superstition, to the chapel on the 
summit, the devout worshipers always stopped at 
every shrine along the way, offering prayers and sous 
to their patron saints. Doubtless, one versed in 
Romish traditions would be able to account for the 
saints whose altars lined the road, but to me, — with 
my simple Protestantism, for whom the lives of the 
saints are contained in the New Testament, there 
seemed an unmeaning irrelevance in the names which 
our small guide repeated as we passed each little 



FOREIGN FRAGMENTS. 323 

shrine. To a secular mind, they appear more like 
little sentry-boxes, than "chapels," though the single 
pointed arch of weather-stained stone, a few feet 
wide at the base, is scarcely in the style of our New 
World architecture. 

If, as is quite possible and consistent with the 
spirit of the times, these " chapelles " were origi- 
nally niches for the figures of these saints, who 
guarded the approach to the chapel of the Madonna, 
the effect must have been quite imposing ; but now, 
there is not a vestige of a figure in any of these 
shrines. ******* 

******** 



324 REFLECTIONS. 



REFLECTIONS. 
I. 

MY JOY. 

We remember our dear Lord's promise, the night 
on which He was betrayed ; we know that the Com- 
forter has come, and that he will, as the Saviour said, 
" take of Mine and show it unto you." Let us hold 
this golden key of promise, which unlocks every door 
of Doubting Castle, praying the Holy Spirit to lead 
us into an open place, where the sunshine of our 
Master's joy may warm our sluggish hearts. Let us 
look unto Jesus, who, for the joy that was set before 
Him, endured the cross and despised the shame. 

Our Lord said, on that sorrowful night: "Tehse 
things have I spoken unto you, that My joy" — not 
My sorrow — " might remain in you, and thsit your joy 
might be full." In the midst of their anguish, at the 
thought of losing Him from their sight, while He 
stood in the awful shadow of Gethsemane and Cal- 
vary, He promised them peace — aye, more, joy. It 
was His own peace, His own joy, which He left with 
them, as a precious legacy. What was this strengthen- 
ing, supporting joy, but the gladness of the Shepherd, 
bearing home on His shoulders the lamb which was 
lost? 

Do we truly realize our oneness with our Saviour, 
in this chosen errand, — His joy ? He said : " As My 



REFLECTIONS, 325 

Father sent me into the world, so send I you," and 
" your joy no man taketh from you." 

On that memorable day, on which He led them out 
as far as Bethany, when, after giving them their gos- 
pel commission. He lifted up His hands and blessed 
them, and a cloud received Him out of their sight, 
there was then no mourning for their absent Lord, but 
the disciples worshiped Him and returned to Jeru- 
salem with great joy. During those forty days of 
frequent communion with their risen Lord, they had 
so grown into His life, had so learned of Him, that 
only adoration and gladness were in their hearts, 
though then their work of preaching the gospel had 
not even begun. 

To-day, nearly the whole world lies open to the feet 
of those who bring the glad tidings. Surely He has 
set before us an open door. If we keep His word, 
and do not deny His name — Jesus, Saviour — we are 
sure that no man can shut this door. There is a deep 
truth in that question of a heathen woman of old : 
" How canst thou say, * I love thee,' when thy heart 
is not with me ? " If our hearts throb in unison with 
His mighty heart of love, will not everything we have 
be His-^thoughts, words, purposes, prayers, influence, 
money, time ? Of everything which we gladly give 
back to Him, we may hear it said, as to one of old : 
" The Lord is able to give thee much more than this." 

None of us can hear and read of the glorious in- 
gathering of the Gentiles, and see the beacon-lights 
of the gospel gleaming afar amid the gross darkness, 
without heart-throbs of gladness. What must be the 
satisfied joy of our Lord, in the travail of His soul ? 



326 REFLECTIONS. 

He had compassion on the multitude because they 
were as sheep having no shepherd. His is the true 
shepherd-heart, caring for and knowing each sheep 
by name — the same Jesus, in heaven as on earth. 

So, when His great love fills and floods our shallow 
hearts and lives to overflowing, when, as the little 
Syrian child said, we love our dear Lord Jesus " as 
much as the sea," shall we not rejoice with Him, in 
His salvation " unto the ends of the earth ? " And 
when, by and by, we go to be with Him, we shall enter 
fully into the joy of our Lord. 



H. 

Unto You Gentiles. 

Not long since, I was forcibly struck by an ex- 
pression, used in prayer at family worship, which car- 
ried home the conviction, as I had never before felt 
it, that all of us, there kneeling in prayer, were "sin- 
ners of the Gentiles." 

Swiftly some subtle, unsuspected pride of 'Christ- 
ian ancestry prompted me to look back for many 
generations, as far as I could trace the line of de- 
scent. But ah ! beyond the earthly record I could 
not go ; and the sad thought of a lost ancestry was 
forced upon me. Far back in those years of dark- 
ness, before the One sacrifice was accomplished at 
Jerusalem, our ancestors were offering those sacri- 
fices which are "an abomination unto the Lord." 



REFLECTIONS. 327 

Beneath the oaks of Britain, amid the mysteries of 
Stonehenge, with Druid rites and human victims, or 
in the unknown worship of savage Celts and Scots — 
thus we know that our forefathers, in their heathen 
blindness and sin, confessed their need of an atone- 
ment. Poor heathen ancestors ! to whom it was not 
given to see the beautiful feet upon the mountains, 
and to hear the gospel of peace ! Sorrowful pity for 
their lost souls stirred such gratitude for the salva- 
tion which we have so fully received, that it seemed to 
me I had never before known what "saved" meant. 

The sovereign and unmerited grace of God never 
appeared so precious as when I began to realize that 
it was as utterly sovereign in its message to me, as to 
the heathen to-day. It is sweet to owe everything to 
Him whose love is infinite as His might, and to re- 
member that, in the councils of eternity, He gave us 
unto His Son for an inheritance. 

But the knowledge of God's grace to sinners comes, 
in God's appointment, by means of fellow-sinners 
saved by grace. If the early Church had been pos- 
sessed of that evil spirit of apathy and cool indiffer- 
ence to the perishing heathen, which is a sad mark 
of the visible Church to-day, we, sinners of the Gen- 
tiles, would still have been without God and without 
hope in the world. 

But there was no lack of Foreign Missionaries 
then. Those early Christians, well remembering the 
command to " preach the gospel beginning at Jerusa- 
lem," never imagined that the widening circles were 
to cease, until that gospel had been preached in all 
the world and to every creature. Paul, the heroic 



328 REFLECTIONS. 

Christian who, by his learning and logic, and wit and 
eloquence, together with that mighty moral force 
which we call character^ was fitted for the high places 
of the earth — Paul, we know, was a Foreign Mission- 
ary, and gloried in his work, and greatly magnified 
his office. We do not ask for another Paul, though 
there may be one now among the persecutors of the 
Church whom the Lord will meet on the way and 
mightily bless, in sending as a light unto the Gentiles. 
The work is still here ; the heathen are perishing \ 
and to-day, the Master says to His Church, as to the 
little band He left at Bethany : " Go ye into all the 
world and preach the gospel to every creature." 
Who will say : " Here am I, Lord ; send me " > 
" The preparation of the heart in man, and the an- 
swer of the tongue, is from the Lord." God grant 
that the manhood of our land may have this spirit of 
consecration to the Master, which is the crown of all 
nobility, and that, by God's grace, many of them may 
be, to heathen nations, the blessed messengers of 
Him "who is able to save them to the uttermost that 
come unto God by Him, seeing He ever liveth to 
make intercession for them ! " 



in. 

" HE SAVED OTHERS j HIMSELF HE CANNOT SAVE." 

It was a singular and involuntary testimony of the 
Jewish world to the unselfish life of the Saviour 
whom they crucified. The words are recorded by 



REFLECTIONS. 329 

three of the evangelists, as uttered by chief priests, 
rulers, scribes and the people that stood by. 

The Roman soldiers placed over the Saviour's 
head the accusation, — strange accusation, in its posi- 
tive and emphatic wording, — written in all the lan- 
guages of the civilized world : " Jesus of Nazareth, 
the King of the Jews \ " and then, in heathen unbe- 
lief, they shouted, as they offered to Him the vinegar : 
" If Thou be the King of the Jews, save Thyself ! " 
The very thief beside Him bitterly cried : " If Thou 
be Christ, save Thyself and us ! " 

Envy and unbelief and pride did not die with those 
who, more than eighteen hundred years ago, stood 
beside the cross ; neither has the offence of the cross 
yet ceased. The Father, whose infinite love moved 
Him to give up His only begotten Son to die for our 
sins, is arraigned by His creatures for injustice, and, 
we might almost say, ungodlike cruelty, in permitting 
a vicarious atonement. Our dear Lord Jesus, who 
humbled Himself to become obedient unto death, 
even the death of the cross, is robbed of His divine 
nature, — the one great fact which made the death ac- 
complished at Jerusalem a virtue for our salvation. 
" Save Thyself ! " is still the cry of the skeptic world ; — 
" Our sins are light \ we need no God-man mediator, 
to die for us, to rise from the dead, and to intercede 
forever." "Come down from the cross, Jesus of Naz- 
areth ! " still shout the Jews, with the stinging scorn 
of unbelief, " and we will believe." 

But the words remain forever true, with a fullness 
and force and preciousness, which none but a sinner 
saved by that one Saviour can feel. He saved oth- 



^30 REFLECTIONS. 

ers j He saved me ; but only by the sacrifice of Him- 
self. When Caiaphas counseled the death of Jesus, 
saying : " It is expedient that one man shall die for 
the people," he did not intend to give the Saviour to 
the world which was perishing with need. The doc- 
trine of Christ's Atonement was as hateful to the 
Jews who waited for the purple-robed Messiah, as it 
is now to the rational heart, which cannot see the 
wondrous beauty of the face which was bruised and 
beaten and spit upon, in His humiliation on the cross. 

He saved others ! a sweet, strong truth it was, — 
•undoubted by multitudes of lame and halt and blind 
and deaf, and' by those too who had been brought to 
life by His hand and voice. And yet the scoffing 
world cries out : " Himself He cannot save." Aye, 
Jews ! your words are true j and blessed be God that, 
in an hour of agony unfathomable, in the quiet olive- 
shade, the utter depth of self-denial was reached, 
and, after the "If it be possible," came the " Never- 
theless, not as I will but as Thou wilt ! " Then and 
there, did Jesus make forever true the cry of the 
Jews. 

Because He saved others, He could not save Him- 
self. And with such love as this, which the Saviour 
bore and bears to-day to us. He says we are to love 
each other. " That ye love one another, as I have 
loved you." And then follow the touching words : 
*' Greater love hath no man than this, — that a man 
lay down his life for his friends." Who of us may 
stand this test : " Inasmuch as ye have done it unto 
one of the least of these, My brethren, ye have done 
it unto Me ''? 



REFLECTIONS. 33 ^ 

IV. 

ONE FAITH. 

" I BELIEVE in the Holy Catholic Church, the Com- 
munion of Saints." 

This confession of the unity of the faith, at the 
close of the Apostles' creed, has always seemed es- 
pecially beautiful to me. I remember learning it, 
when a child, and repeating it to my mother, on Sab- 
bath afternoons, along with Brown's catechism and 
Bible verses. I recall, too, our gentle mother's simple 
explanation of the word " Catholic," which had evoked 
a protest from my innate Presbyterianism. I some- 
times wonder if the little Episcopalians, who hear the 
Apostles' creed from their earliest years, and uncon- 
sciously become familiar with it, understand the word 
any better than I did. 

The precious truth of the oneness of faith of all 
lovers and followers of Christ must be peculiarly em- 
phasized, when one hears the same dear old gospel 
of God's grace preached, in far-oif lands, to dissimilar 
peoples, and under such contrasting surroundings, as 
missionaries often acknowledge and appreciate. But 
in a narrower range, the same truth is still forcible. 



V. 

LITTLE HELPERS. 



I WISH to tell you something I have just heard at 
the Children's Mission Hour. After a good deal had 



332 REFLECTIONS. 

been told about Africa, and the thrilling story of a 
missionary's life had been repeated to the children, 
our pastor said he thought the boys ought to have the 
privilege of working in bands, as the girls did. He 
believed they would do it well, and it was a pity not 
to give them the chance. 

Then the superintendent told how, when he was a 
boy, he used to go to house-raisings : 

" Boys, in those times, they did not build houses as 
they do now, leaving the work all to hired carpenters. 
They had great beams, and a whole side of a house 
was put together on the ground ; then great crowds 
of friends and neighbors met, to raise it bodily. I 
remember, when I was a lad of fourteen, seeing an 
old gentleman, who was always present wherever 
there was a raising. I had a considerable idea of my 
own importance and strength, but didn't think that 
old gentleman could help at all. ' My boy,' he said, 
* suppose they have men enough to lift all but a pound 
of the weight of that side of the house ! I can lift 
that pound, I reckon. So, I go, on the chance of their 
needing just my little strength, to help.' " 

Then our pastor said that he remembered house- 
raisings, too, up in his native State, and the greatest 
fun he used to have, as a boy, was at these raisings. 
" I used to go, though I was not more than six or 
seven years old. And I remember just how they 
used to fasten those frames together. It was done 
with great, wooden pins. Well, there always was a 
man on hand, whose whole work was to make these 
pins ; and the way we little fellows helped was by 
carrying the pins ! 



REFLECTIONS. 333 

" And now, little boys who read ' Children's Work/ 
you cannot now put your small hands directly to the 
heavy work the dear nniissionaries and teachers are 
doing among the heathen ; but brave, earnest, hearty 
boys can do grand, good work, in ways just as helpful 
as in old times of house-raising, when their willing 
hands carried the pins." 



VI. 

THE LION AND THE ADDER. 

This morning, I heard a most helpful sermon by 
Dr. G., on the temptation of Christ. His sermon to 
little children was on the same subject, and was su- 
premely simple and earnest. The milk for babes was 
undiluted, and children of a larger growth might well 
be nourished thereby. He spoke of Jesus in the 
wilderness, with the wild beasts, and reminded them 
of the promise in the ninety-first Psalm : " Thou 
shalt tread on the lion and the adder." This was a 
part of the very Psalm which Satan had misquoted 
to Jesus, when he tried to make Him presume on 
His heavenly Father's providential care, and dared 
Him to prove Himself the Son of God by casting 
Himself down from a pinnacle of the temple. 

The speaker told us that some sins were like lions, 
and some like adders, but if we love the Lord Jesus, 
we shall conquer them all. Our very worst tempers 
and passions, which rend the soul, like raging lions, 



334 REFLECTIONS. 

as well as the temptations to falsehood, and deceit, 
and meanness, which slay the soul as surely as the 
crawling, deadly serpents slay the body, were con- 
quered by the Lord Jesus, when He was in the wil- 
derness of this world ; and the enemies He has 
trodden under foot and destroyed cannot hurt His 
little children, who truly trust themselves to Him, and 
wish, most of all things, to please Him. 



VII. 

GIVE PLACE. 



In the sermon this morning, there was a thought 
which was quite striking. The subject was the rais- 
ing of Jairus' little daughter. The words were : 
*' Give place," etc. It was said that, at times, all we 
could do — all that God wanted of us — was that we 
should give place to Him ; the Holy Spirit as Com- 
forter, alone could reach the heart of our grief in 
bereavement or distress ; and the truest kindness 
was to acknowledge this, and let the Lord speak to 
our friends' hearts. 

And again, in seeking the salvation of others, while 
we must not undervalue the influence of human 
hearts and lips, we must, above all, stand aside, and 
let the Master speak — seek this blessing directly from 
Him. 



/ AM NO P0E2\ 335, 



I AM NO POET. 



I AM no poet. No ! a wingless bird 
Is not a bird at all. Dull eyes that turn 
Though longing, still unseeing, up to heaven. 
Are not the eyes, which, having seen the Truth, 
Bend down their glances, from the heights serene 
Upon the earth, to lighten it from God. 

But Thou canst open, with Thy blessed touch, 
These sightless eyes. Anoint them as of old, 
When, Life and Light, Thou walkedest on the Earth \ 
And, by Thy fingers on my spirit's lips 
Thou canst so purify them, though it be 
By baptism of fire, and with sacred seal 
Of suffering, that their silence shall be burst, — 
When, through my weakness. Thou hast wrought Thy 

strength. 
Thou canst^h}ci ! wilt Thou glorify Thyself, 
And make me sing of Thee, and praise for aye ? 



,336 THY HOMESICK CHILD. 



THY HOMESICK CHILD. 



" Why cannot I follow Thee now." — John, xiii. y]. 

Home, home ! dear Father, take Thy poor child home, 
And let me rest from sin and strife and sorrow. 

Lord Jesus, tarry not ! Oh, quickly come ! 

Bid me to sleep, to wake in heaven to-morrow. 

'T would matter little how severe the pain, 

How fierce the mortal struggle, — hard the dying ; 

Once o'er, I ne'er should taste of death again, 
Nor sin, nor grieve, — in Jesus' bosom lying. 

Yet, Lord, Thy holy eyes, which try the soul, 

Must see in wretched me such depths of sinning. 

That, while I hoped my feet were near the goal, 
Thou'dst know me but the race to be beginning. 

And so I leave it rather all to Thee, 

One only prayer, dear Saviour, Lord, preferring : 
Do what Thou wilt^ I know that best for me 

Thy ways are ; — altho' hidden, yet unerring. 

Yet I would meekly pray Thee that I may 
Live ever at Thy feet : Thee thus beholding, 

Like Martha's lowly sister^ day by day, 

I may, by sight, grow like Thee, — e'er unfolding 

Germs of resemblance, which, at last, 
Shall burst to full perfection, in the hour 

When the long years of seed-time shall be past. 
And Thine own hand shall cull Thy perfect flower. 



HOMELESS. 337 



HOxMELESS. 

A SPRAY of clinging seaweed, floating o'er the wave, 
Still turning pleading tendrils to the rocky shore ; 

A little boat, cut loose and sent adrift to brave 
The storm and whirlwind, 'mid the restless ocean's 
roar: 

A bird that turns at sunset, with a weary wing, 
To seek the happy nest she left at early morn ; 

But ah ! her quest is fruitless — all her wandering 
Ends in an empty nest — a heart bereft, forlorn : 

A hungry, shivering child who lingers mute, without 
The homes of gladness, in the merry Christmas 
time. 
And hears, with strange distinctness, many a childish 
shout 
Borne down from happy heights he knows he may 
not climb: 

Or, — sadder still, — the outcast, warmed and clothed 
and fed. 
With faithful care for all his lower nature's needs, 
Yet evermore denied the happy children's bread, — 
The tears and kisses for the heart that aches and 
pleads ! 



22 



/ 



338 LIFT UP THE CHRIST. 



LIFT UP THE CHRIST. 



And I, if I be lifted up, will draw all men unto me 

Lift up the Christ of God 
Who came to save the lost, 

Whose arms are opened wide 
To poor souls, tempest-tossed ! 

Oh ! lift up none but Christ ! 

5H[e died for you and me ; 
Then, Brothers, lift Him up, 

So all the world may see. 

Tell how He lived and loved, 
Tell how He loved and died 

With pierced hands and feet. 
And spear thrust in His side — 

When He was lifted up 

In pain on Calvary, 
And bore our guilt and shame, 

And died for you and me. 

Lift up this Christ, and crown 
Him King of heart and life, 

Whose love is more than friend, 
Than mother, child or wife. 

This Jesus Lord of Jew 
And Gentile yet shall be, 

When He is lifted up 

That all the w^orld may see. 



MY JERICHO. 339 

He is exalted now, 

To save and to forgive ; 
Oh ! look ye dying ones ! 

Look unto Him, and live ! 

Tell the Glad Tidings,— how 

From sin He sets us free; 
His Spirit gives us life, — 

New life and liberty. 

Oh ! Holy Spirit! teach 

Of Jesus crucified, 
rhat every one who hears. 

May love the Lord who died. 

Dear Lord, we lift Thee up ! 

Thy promise now we claim : 
Draw all men unto Thee, 

x\nd glorify Thy name ! 



iMY TERICIIO. 



A CITY clay-built; yet how fair 

It was, — with streaming banners splendid, 
And dear-bought treasures, rich and rare — 
The shrine before which many a prayer 

Was breathed, and many a knee was bended ! 

Not Baalbec nor Imperial Rome, 

Nor the fair theme of Homer's story, 
No minaret nor Persian dome, 



340 IVHO AND WHENCE? 

Nor city sprung from ocean foam, — 
No western pride, nor eastern glory. 

Unseen by mortal vision dim, 

Its silent guilt from men was hidden ; 
Its mystic site known but to Him 
Whose pure eyes pierce thro' seraphim ; 
Whom naught escapes — allowed, forbidden. 

It was within my heart I built 

This City, graceless, God denying. 

The walls were laid in woe and guilt ; 

My reddest life-blood, too, was spilt 
To seal my Babel, Heaven-defying. 



WHO AND WHENCE? 

Not from Jerusalem, alone, 

To Heaven the path ascends ; 
As near, as sure, as straight the way, 
That leads to the Eternal Day, 
From further realms extends : — 
Frigid or torrid zone. 

What matters, how or when we start ? 

One is the crown to all ; 
'One is the hard but glorious race, 
\Whatever be the starting place : 

Hark ! round the Earth, the call, 
To each — Arise, depart ! 



WHO AND WHENCE? 34^ 

From the balm-breathing, sun-loved isles, 

Laved by the Southern sea, — 
From the dread North's cloud-shadowed pole^ 
We gather to one gladsome goal — 

One common home in thee, 
City of sun and smiles ! 

The raging billow hinders none, 

Nor aids the tranquil main ; 
Alike the crags of Norway's gloom, 
The verdure of Tahitian bloom, 

The sands of Mizraim's plain, 
Or peak of Lebanon. 

From out the green land of the vine, 

Eke from the snow-wastes pale. 
Behold an ever-open road 
To the dear City of our God j — 

From pagan Burmah's vale, 
And terraced Palestine. 

For sorrowing soul, by Jordan's stream, 

Or Indus' swelling tide. 
Where Danube rolls, or Thames, or Rhone, 
Or glides majestic Amazon,— 

A Home, where joys abide. 

Shines with celestial gleam. 

Not from Jerusalem, alone. 

The Church mounts up to God. 
Strangers of every tongue and clime, 
Pilgrims thro' every age of time, 

Throng the well-trodden road 
That leads unto the Throne. 



342 THROUGH MY SKYLIGHT. 



THROUGH MY SKYLIGHT,. 



(Mid-Ocean.) 

Dark waters underneath me, 
Blue heavens overhead — 

B-^tween them, I am resting 
Without a thought of dread 

For One abideth nearer^ 
At sea, as on the land ; 

Who measured out the waters 
In th' hollow of His hand. 

Tho' often, angry surges 

Shut out the glimpse of sky. 

Have patience, soul, awaiting 
The sunshine, by and by ! 

Let wild winds rave about me, 
The storm its fury pour ; 

I ride the flood as safely 
As patriarch of yore. 

What tho', as men may reckon, 
The voyage prove too short ; 

Tho' God hath willed the haven 
Be not an earthly port ? 

" Lo, I am with you alway " — 

Holds, for Eternity ; 
He with me, I should fear not 

To go to heaven by sea. 



SYRIAN CHILDREN. 343 

But oh ! the weary watching 

For never-coming ship ! 
The thought, to eye brings tear drops 

And tremor to the lip. 

To Him a prayer arises, 

To guide us safe to land, 
Who measured out the waters 

In th' hollow of His hand. 

No billows may o'erwhelm me 
Whose weight He does not know, 

Since Christ himself hath tasted 
Infinity of woe. 

A human hand, once pierced, 

Holdeth supreme control 
Of me, in life or dying, 

Of body and of soul. 



SYRIAN CHILDREN. 

(A. D. 33; A. D., 1S80.) 

I WAS reading in the Bible, 

How, long ago, our Lord 
By young Judean children. 

In the temple was adored ; 
Their glad Hosannas ringing 

A welcome swift and sweet 
To JMessiah, riding lowly 

Along the palm-strown street. 



344 SYRIAN CHILDREN. 

How, once, when the disciples 

Disputed, on the way, 
Which one should be the greatest 

In His triumphal day, 
No word of blame He uttered 

To hearts by pride beguiled, 
But, entering a dwelling. 

Called unto Him a child. 

Close in His arms He held him 

Saying, " Except ye be. 
As little children, humble, 

Ye cannot reign with Me." 
The place that is the highest 

Is that of minist'ring. 
The loving, lowly-hearted 

Stand nearest to the King. 

To-day, the little children 

In distant Syria's land 
The arms of faith are lifting, 

To clasp the Saviour's hand ; — 
Who, when, from loving teachers 

Of Jesus they have heard. 
Pray earnestly in secret. 

To understand His word. 

When Mualima Hallun 

Their childish hearts would win, 
She told the sweet old story 

Of Bethlehem's crowded inn, — 
The dear Lord Jesus, cradled 

In manger hewn of stone. 



SYRIAiV CHILDREN. 345 

And how His mother, Mary, 
Was humble as their own. 

Then one, among the youngest, — 

Whose home had been beside 
The deep, blue inland ocean, 

With ebbless waters wide, — 
Unto the teacher, asking 

The group about her knee, 
How muck loved they Lord Jesus, 

Said quickly, '^ As the sea." 

When Mualima Hallun, 

Caressing, as she smiled. 
Asked, "Why do you so love Him ? " 

Replied the little child. 
Clasping her hands for gladness, 

In faith's simplicity : 
" I love Him, oh ! I love Him 

Because He does love me." 

Sweet baby-lips, that silence 

The words of scorn and dread ; 
Dear childish hands, that gladly 

Would crown the Saviour's head ! 
Ah ! in that day, when cometh 

The King unto His own, 
Shall not these little children 

Stand close beside His Throne ? 



346 SPES SALUTIS. 



THE RIFTED CLOUD. 



Dark the cloud that now hangs o'er thee, 
Shrouding all thy path before thee : 
But with eye of faith uplifted, 
See, dear child, the cloud is rifted ! 

Gleams from that fair home of brightness, 
Where the ransomed walk in whiteness, 
Downward to this earth have drifted — 
Jesus' hand the cloud has rifted. 

So, whene'er thou walkest dreary, 
Keep this token nigh to cheer thee ; 
Thou, with "faith and patience" gifted, 
Soon shall't see the dark cloud rifted. 

Earthly grief shall grow to gladness, 
Singing shall replace the sadness, • 
Shadowy scenes, for aye, be shifted, 
When at last the cloud is lifted. 



SPES SALUTIS. 



Even the summer breeze. 
That steals with noiseless step o'er vale and hill, 
To kiss with wooing lip the gurgling rill 

To sweeter melodies. 



SPj^S SALUTIS. 347 

Bears on its balin}^ breath 
The power to wake the sad ^olian harp 
To wailing minor notes — to strike the sharp, 

Shrill, anguished key of Death. 

O Earth ! for our sake 
So laden with a burden not thine own, 
Beneath which thou must ever toss and groan 

Till God thy bondage break ! 

For thy sake, toiling Earth, 
We wait, with patient hope and strong desire, 
Until the promised baptism of fire 

Shall gladden thy new biith 

With peace as pure and deep 
As that which fills the tideless, ebbless sea 
Of God's own heart, in whose immensity 

Earth's circling changes sleep. 

The lamb that once was lost. 
Won back, receives the Shepherd's tenderest care ; 
So thou, lost Earth, wilt seem more dear and fair, 

For what thy saving cost ! 

And, from that Isle of Bliss, 
Which seemeth now so far away and dim, 
The white-winged throng of glorious seraphim 
Shall ever pass to this : 

The mystic Ladder's bars 
Once more be traversed by the angel guild. 
And Israel's dream shall yet become fulfilled 

Upon the path of stars. 



348 CUM SCUTO, VEL SUPER. 



CUM SCUTO, VEL SUPER. 



" Go, boy ! thou son of patriot vows, 
Go ! in the glory of thy youth — 
With God's own sunlight on thy brows, 
Battle for God and Right and Truth. 

"My child, I laid thee in God's hand. 
When first thy baby heart had life — 
Now, when Flis frown is on the land. 
He calls thee to the field of strife. 

" His will, His holy will be done — 

In heaven above — so on the earth — 
Though, if they slay my only son 

They quench the fire in heart — on hearth.'* 

" Nay, mother, God will guard me well ; 
Is not the Lord his people's shield ? 
With Him as my strong citadel, 
I shall be safe on bloodiest field." 

" God bless thee, darling, — tender, brave ! 
God keep thee safe from ill and scath ! 
Oh ! sooner fill a nameless grave 

Than lose this precious shield of faith." 

" My mother, trust me in God's hands 
To keep me faithful tho' I die." 
— Amid the clang of martial bands. 

He heard his mother's last " Good-bye ! " 



1865. 349 

Far off beneath a Southern sun, 

He fought and, bravely fighting, fell. 

Mother, oh ! say, " His will be done ! " 
" My mother," breathed he, " all is well ! " 

They bore him to his home again ; 

His white brow wore God's kiss of peace — 
A tender, trustful look, as when 

Death brings the soldier glad release. 

They told his mother how he fell. 

Still praying on the battle field : ■ 
"God heard me ;" said she, "it is well — 

They brought him home upon his shield." 



1865. 

I DREAMED a dream : beneath a May-day sun, 
Behold a host of homeward-marching men — 
Of such as never we shall see again \ 
For now the fight is won, 

And gleam of bayonet, and sabre's flash, 
And flaunting flags, all torn and faded now. 
Are only laurels for our country'^ brow. 
After the battle's crash. 

But all the glory of this blessed day. 
Long, weary years of dubious conflict cobt ; 
And many a desperate charge was made and lost, 
To pave the veterans' way. 



350 1866- 

Full oft, the shot that, swift as falling star, 
Pierced to the heart, beneath the gray or blue, 
Swept on its deadly course, and entered, too, 
A loving heart afar. 

For many a loving mother's tender hand. 
In parting blessing, touched her darling's brow ; 
And many a lonely mother watches now 
The remnant of his band. 

We wist not when the sombre cloud arose. 
Nor thought, at first, our Father had decreed 
That skies should darken till the slave was freed, 
And, from the Nation's throes 

Of agony, should spring a joy more great, 
More Godlike than all triumphs of the past — 
The joy of bringing light and hope at last. 
At last — but not too late. 

Yet, mid the darkness, for the trustful heart, 
Faint gleams of sunlight shot athwart the sky ; 
For some who met, in struggle fierce to die, 
Were near, tho' far apart ; 

And o'er the horrors of the battle field, 
Whence angels turned askance, with saddened eyes, 
Were open flung the gates of Paradise, 
To those who bore the shield 

Of faith in Jesus ; — tho' in mortal strife 
Each resolute, and armed with courage grand, 
They fought and fell, yet, dying, hand in hand 
They entered into life. 



GARFIELD. 35 1 

So, with the hosts which pass in Grand Review, 
True soldiers, tried by march and scarred in fight. 
Another army, clad in robes of white, 
Before me passes, too ! 

From soldiers' graves, broadcast o'er all the land. 
From prisons, whence their blood cries up to God, 
From Southern plains, and from the church-yard sod,. 
They come — a victor band 

Of Christian heroes, without fear or blame, 
Who, tho' the world looked coldly on, and scoffed. 
Still bore their banner and Christ's cross aloft, 
And won a heavenly fame. 



GARFIELD. 
(ENGLAND — AMERICA.) 

Toll heavily, sad bells, toll ! 
Across the surges of the throbbing sea, 
A nation's voice is borne, in majesty 
Of mingled love and dole. 

Roll back this sobbing wave ! 
The People's heart has grown too full for tears ; 
They will not leave their Hero, thro' the years 
Of darkness, in the grave. 

He lives ! He is not dead. 
For love holds empire mightier than death. 
His true life failed not when the anguished breath, 
'Mid Elberon's darkness, fled. 



352 GARFIELD. 

His country's heart is warm : 
Safe-guarded tliere, not buried, let liim lie. 
The Nation lives — how should her Hero die ? 
Nor earthquake-shock nor storm 

Avails to rend him thence. 
Thro' million veins his true life throbs to-day, 
In pulse heroic, thrilling 'neath the sway 
Of God's omnipotence. 

Yet why, at splendid noon, 
Came nightfall ? Thro' the darkness o'er the land, 
Brothers, long parted, clasped each other's hand. 
Craving one common boon. 

God gave His answer — Rest, 
A patriot's fallen, and the flags are furled ; 
Sad-hearted bells ring out around the world : 
" God reigns — His ways are best ! " 

Yes, God hath bidden cease 
The torture and the struggle — all the strange 
Sad mystery of pain. No chance nor change 
Shall mar his endless peace. 

Wild waves, that surge and sob ! 
Roll back in silence from this peaceful shore. 
Thro' agony comes strength, and evermore 
By throes the vital throb. 

Not dust, alone, to dust. 
But love to love, and life to risen life. 
Shout " Victory ! " For ended is His strife. 
And God has crowned the just. 



MINISTERING. 353 



AT EVENTIDE. 



To-night, I lingering watched tli' incoming tide 
Roll up, with gathering might along the shore, 

As if, with eager impulse, swift to hide 

Our footprints, which the sands at sunset bore. 

Thou mighty sea, that coverest, day by day, 
Of human wanderings full many a trace ! 

Type of thy great Creator, whom we pray 

To blot our sins out with His pardoning grace. 



MINISTERING. 



Sweet is the story how, once, long ago, 

The Son of Man, — his mission near complete,- 

At even, before supper, bending low. 

In meekness, washed His own disciples' feet. 

O Night to be remembered thro' all time. 

The theme of praises in Eternity ! 
Love, service, sorrow — trinity sublime — 

The upper chamber, and Gethsemane ! 

Last hours, deep-fraught with human tenderness. 

Wondrous ensample of humility ! 
** As I have done, do ye." O Master, bless 

Us with the grace obedient to be ! 
23 



354 BALSAM— BALM— EVERLASTING. 

A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 



Fast, fast they are flitting— the dark shapes of sin, 
And God's shining angels are hastening in ; 
Evanished in gloom is the last sullen gnome, 
And Christ is the Lord of our hearts and our home. 

Then joy-bells, oh ! ring, and ye ransomed ones, sing t 
Our sins are forgiven, and Jesus is King. 
He comes ; to His footsteps the gates open wide, 
Rejoice in His love, on this blest Christmas tide ! 



BALSAM— BALM— EVERLASTING. 



It has no bloom of roses, nor the lily's fair estate ; 
No eye may mark its lowly head among the grand and 

great ; 
It boasts no midnight glory, that must die at break 

of day. 
Nor fleeting glow of morning, in the sun that fades 

away. 

Yet is there something winsome in its fadeless, simple 
dress — 

A beauty, speaking to the soul of loving steadfast- 
ness : 

Thro' tempests, hail and sunshine, thro' the fervid 
August heat. 

The little white-faced flower holds a fragrance, 
strange and sweet 



MY LOVE. 355 

As healing balsam of a love that's trusted, true and 
tried, 

Safe-garnered up, in patient souls which faithful e'er 
abide. 

— Dear Heart ! with trust as constant as this flower's 
fadeless hue. 

Thro' life and death, oh ! hold embalmed my change- 
less love for you ! 



GOLDILOCKS AND SILVER HAIR. 



A LITTLE maid sits on the post, by the gate. 
And merrily sings, keeping time with her feet : 

"Dear Sun, shine forever — don't let it grow late 

Black Night, stay away, for the daylight is sweet!'* 

The shadows grow long, in the still afternoon, 

' Neath the old latticed porch, where the elm 
branches meet. — 
A silver haired woman sighs : " Dear Night, come 
soon, 
For I am aweary, and rest would be sweet ! " 



MY LOVE. 



A GENTLE, loving, trustful heart, 
A woman's wit, and childhood's grace, 
The pure soul shining in the face — 

A nature above art. 



356 MY LOVE. 

Quick, wistful, keen to sympathize 
With weakness, tho' so far from weak ; 
A life whose fearless actions speak 

Truth, scorning all disguise. 

Yet is she strangely coy and shy, 
Shrinking from careless word or touch. 
God shield her. — I, who love her much, 

Am passed unnoticed by. 

I love her, but I will not paint 
Her with unearthly aureole ; 
A woman, with a human soul, 

Is better than a saint. 

I cannot touch her garment's hem. 
Yet, as the magnet owns the North, 
Draws she my nobler nature forth^ 

She wears my diadem, 

Unconscious as a child, whose brows 
Are kissed in sleep by gentle lips, 
While love, that makes apocalypse. 

Is mute, nor seeks to rouse. 



My dreamer, with those veiled eyes ! 
Your changing dreams I yet will watch 
If, after years, I may but catch 

One look of glad surprise — 

A wistful, recognizing glance ; 
While in my heart I hold you, till 
You learn to trust the loving will 

That woke you from your trance. 



MV REST. 357 

God knows I cannot love you less — 
He gave the love. Tho' now concealed, 
It guards you with earth's trustiest shield — 

A strong man's tenderness. 

Dear child, whose hands enclasp my fate — 
Wearing the purple of the crowned ! 
Love's angel watch your path around, 

I love you. I can wait. 

But, let heart-trying sorrow come — 
Should summer blossoms, chilled by frost, 
Fall fruitless, — friends of yore be lost, 

Ah ! could I then be dumb ? 

Grief, touching thee, would swift unseal 
The lips where love was silent long : 
Hearts are, that braver grow — more strong, 

In woe, perchance, than weal. 

The fluttering bird, with broken wing, 
Tho' timid, nestles trustful, too : — 
So, darling, it may be when you 

To me shall, turning, cling. 



MY REST. 



God's warl' is fu' o' glory — wi' the snow-capt moun- 
tain gran', 

An' the mighty sea, He holdeth in the hollow o' His 
han'; 



358 A NIGHT WATCH. 

But the heart that's like a birdie, aweary for its 

nest, 

Hears the sea an' hill-top singing — Return unto thy 

rest! 

I' the secret o' His presence, a' the restless waves 

o' doubt, 
An' the skaith an' dool o' strivin' for aye are shutten 

out : 
As the ingleside is dearer i' the cauld an' wintry 

nicht, 
So, the daurkness o' the warl' inak's the sweeter 

heaven's licht. 



A NIGHT WATCH. 



" He abode two days still, in the same place where He was. 
John, xi. 6. 

Ah ! long ago, I used to think 
That we might understand 

God's purposes to us and ours, — 
The reason why He planned 

A sorrow here, a gladness there, — 
Now glory, now disgrace : 

The heights of Tabor yesterday, 
To-day a desert place. 

But now, it all is hid from me. 
Or else, my heart is blind. 

Out of the dark, I cry to God, 
And reach my arms to find 



A NIGHT WATCH. 359 

The Hand whose clasp I dare not miss: 

Help Thou mine unbelief ! 
My very crying, Lord, for Thee 

Brings something of relief. 

I know not, and I will not ask 

Thee what it means j but bless, 
Oh ! loving Father, for Christ's sake, 

This mystery of distress ! 

Jesus ! Thou seem'st so far away. 

When hope of Thy relief. 
Thro' lonely hours of night and day, 

Has almost died in grief. 

Watching so long beside our dead, 

Our hearts grow faint with fear : 
He often came to Bethany — 

Why will He not come here ? 

Do not I seek Thy will, not mine ? 

Lord, teach me how to wait, 
As wearied child, until Thou come — 

Thou ne'er wilt be too late 

To save from sin, to raise from death. 

Master, I would be still. 
And cease to murmur when Thy work 

Seems different from Thy will. 

He comes ! He comes ! It is His voice 

Once more, that calleth me. 
Oh ! Resurrection and the Life ! 

I leave my dead to Thee. 



360 THE LAST THING. 



THE LAST THING. 



It is a precious thing. 
'T is mine. For years, I've worn it on my hand^ 
Upon this finger — Ah ! you understand — 

It is my wedding ring. 

By every word or sign 
That seals possession of a thing of worth — 
By gift, acknowledgment and use, — on earth, 

'T is mine and only mine. 

And yet it tortures me 
To think that, in a very little while. 
One — friend or foe — might come and, with a smile 

That I could never see. 

Might take this ring away; — 
While I, to whom it surely now belongs, 
Who count such act the basest of all wrongs, 

Would have no word to say ! 

I know — I know, 'tis true — 
The vanity of vanities ! Love's gold 
We clasp, until our fingers grow too cold ; 

Then drop it — as I do. 

I yield, without a word, 
The little treasures of my childhood's years. 
The gifts of those I've mourned with silent tears,— 

My pictures and my bird. 



THE LAST THING. 361 

I've given everything 
To those who love me, and would care to keep 
Some waking thoughts of one who's gone to sleep : — - 

But not my wedding ring. 

I think that, for my sake, 
Some hearts will grieve, and some will lonely be — 
How long, no matter ! Not for love of me 

May heart of any break ! 

I say it. It is truth. 
Thank God : not often break the hearts that grieve : 
That is an early fancy which we leave 

With many dreams of youth. 

I should be sadder now, 
This day, — to leave you all, O tried and true ! 
Were I to know that any one of you 

With hopeless grief would bow, 

After I'm gone away. 
— I love so many things- — the sounding sea ; 
High hills of God, enwrapt in mystery ; 

The swift cloud-shadow's play 

Over the daisied grass; 
All helpless little ones ; poor souls in pain. 
That learn, thro' present loss, heaven's blessed gain :: 

— Yet soon, they say, I'll pass 

Beyond all earthly things ! 
My legacy is love, — that claspeth tight 
This world of God, — its darkness and its light, 

Its winters and its springs. 



362 THRO' GLOOM TO GLORY. 

Faith shall make parting light. 
My own dear friends — my dearest above all ! 
Let not the shadows from my grave that f*ll 

Make God's fair earth less bright. 

I think — I think you know 
That not in terror, now, my soul is brought 
Here, facing Death. Christ won that fight. He fought 

My battle long ago. 

You wonder that I hold 
With such a jealous grasp material sign 
■Of human love, when heaven is nearly mine ? 

— My heart has not grown cold. 

Must it be strange and true ? 
What meaneth "strange " ? Ah ! am I still a child, 
From precious present things to be beguiled 

By future, fair and new } 

Ah! no more questioning — 
For, drop by drop, my cup is emptied low. — 
'Take, dearest heart, who gave it long ago, 

My ring, my wedding ring ! 



THRO' GLOOM TO GLORY. 



*■ My flesh and my heart faileth." — Ps., Ixxiii. 26 

The heart is faint, the flesh is frail ; 
I fear to glance adown the vale. — 
With faith too weak to clasp the rod, 
How meet the messenger of God ? 



THIUy GLOOM 10 GLORY. 363 

The angel comes and bears this token : 
" The golden bowl shall soon be broken ;. 
The Master calleth thee ! Lay down 
Thy life-long cross, and take the crown." 

shrinking heart, O trembling soul ! 
Why falter now, so near the goal ? 
Alas ! mine eyes but dimly see 

The crown of glory waiting me. 

1 near the brink ; the darkling wave 
My toil-worn feet anon shall lave. 

I trembling cry, 'mid death's alarms, 
" O Saviour, hold me in thine arms." 

Death's surges roll across my breast ; 
They bear me to a peaceful rest. 
My cry was heard — His arms are thrown 
Around His fainting, trembling one. 

My grasp is weak ; His hold is strong ; 
He will not let the strife be long : 
I'm nearly home. At last, I see 
The haven where I long to be. 

The shore is won, my eager feet 
Peace-sandaled, tread the golden street : 
I gain the great, white throne, and cling 
To Him thereon, my God, my King. 

— Alas ! 'twas but a moment's dream 
I linger still, this side the stream : 
But now I tremble not, to think 
I'm on the swelling: river's brink. 



364 IMPOTENCE. 

I know on whose dear arm I lean — 
A Saviour, near me, tho' unseen. 
His touch makes mortal weakness strong, 
Turns grief to gladness,, sighs to song. 



IMPOTENCE. 



Forever we are pondering and learning ; 

From childhood unto age, we ceaseless grope, 
And cry " more light '" — the quenchless spirit's yearn- 
ing 

To look at God through human theoscope ; 

We feel earth's winding folds our eyesight dimming, 
And hands, sin-palsied, strive to tear them thence. 

Angels around us, all unheard, are hymning 
Anthems of joy, — while, in our impotence 

To learn, or see, or hear the things eternal, 
We wait at some Bethseda, till the word 

Of grace and truth comes down with power supernal, 
And stagnant spirit-depths are angel-stirred. 

Will, knowledge, sight, Immanuel's word createth, 
Unseals deaf ears to hear His precious name. — 

O longing heart ! Who on His promise waiteth, — 
His trembling trust shall ne'er be put to shame. 

The soul that walks in gloom, yet meekly heedeth 
The Saviour's voice, still reaching for His hand, 

Ere long shall clasp it, as He gently leadeth 
Through desert drear, unto a glorious land. 



PEARLS AND PEBBLES. 365 



DUMB. 



Born dumb ! In songless cries, my lips I ope 

My heart with tidal surges swells and aches : 

But never, in its wildest tempest, breaks 

A doorway to the blessed land, where Hope 

Sings in the sunshine. There the dull sounds grope 

In wintry dark, beneath the blinding flakes 

From stormy heavens falling on the earth, 

And swelling it to fruitful toil and pain ; — 

Then shoot to light amid the spring-time mirth 
Of robins and of bluebirds. Not in vain 
My heart, shut up in silence, dreads to lose 
The blessed speech of others ! Yet there's use 
For God's dumb creatures. Oh ! how long, how long, 

Before this heart of mine breaks into song t 



PEARLS AND PEBBLES. 

god's word — man's words. 

Pearls wondrous pure and precious from depths di- 
vine are brought, 

While pebbles lie by thousands along the shore un- 
sought. 

Yet faith makes pebbles precious : sometimes a little 
stone. 

By hand of youthful David, from sling of faith well 
thrown, 



3^6 UNDER THE SNOWS. 

Doth slay a boastful giant. A power from above 
Makes human accents potent, when energized by love. 
A child's sweet voice may vanquish the Babel-hosts 

of sin ; 
A word, for Jesus spoken, a wanderer may win. 

Thus musing, and yet trembling, the while I strove to 

sing, 
I threaded pearls and pebbles upon the self-same 

string; 
Remembering Israel's vision, beneath the midnight 

stars, 
When heaven's angels traversed the mystic ladder's 

bars, — 
When earthly stones, transfigured beneath seraphic 

feet, 
Became the pearly arches that guard the golden 

street. 



UNDER THE SNOWS. 



Under the snows, the deathly snows, 

My treasures are hidden from mortal eyes ; 

Death's icy hand holds them ; God knows, God knows 
How much of my heart and my life there lies — 
Of sepulchred love, that never dies, — 

Deep buried beneath the snows. 

They were taken, and I was left ; 

Theirs is the glory, and mine the gloom. 
Death plucked the flowers that grew in the cleft. 



UNDER THE SNOWS. 367 

And bore up to heaven their rich perfume, 
While he spared the poor vine, without scent or 
bloom. 
God knoweth, I am bereft ! 

And yet, what matter? Sweet is the rest 
Of each of the silent slumberers there. 

Weary hands folded across the breast, 

White brows no longer by care oppressed,. 
Nothing but tokens of slumber they wear. 

Under the snows, at rest. 

Under the snows and under the sod, 

Lilies and hearts-ease are waiting for spring. 

One day — as, of yore, the bare almond-rod — 
The seed sown in tears, a perishing thing. 
Shall burst into beauty and blossoming. 

At the touch and fiat of God. 

Deathliest snows and earth-wrought bars \ 

Ye cannot fetter the body's guest. 
The warrior-victor, in spite of his scars, 

Bears earnest of glory within his breast ; 

The legend of conquest engraved on his cresty 
He soareth beyond the stars. 

Sleep beloved ! no earthly moan 

Over your snow-mantled grave I make. 

Rest well, earliest, dearest mine own 1 

Death bruised the heart-strings that life will not 

break : 
God their hushed music one day will awake 

Unto a heavenly tone. 



.368 BO.VA'Y BOON. 



BONNY BOON. 

Oh ! min' yep' yon lee-lang day, 
Fair as a rose in heart o' June, 

We wandered past auld Alloway, 
An' lingered by the banks o' Doon ? 

Nae hush was on the mavis' sang, 

An' still the braes bloomed fresh an' fair, 

Tho' silent noo he sleeps, for lang, 
Wha sung the praise o' Doon an' Ayr. 

Far frae auld Scotia's hills an' glens 
The daisy smiles beneath the pleugh ; 
'*' A man's a man," the wide warl' kens, 
An " Hieland Mary " leeves anew, 

Cauld blasts frae weary wastes o' snaw, 
Saft zephyrs whisperin' thro' the vine, 

Wild winds, frae east to west that blaw, — 
Hae ye forgotten Auld Lang Syne ? 

Puir heart ! sae human in its guid, — 
Alas, maist human in its wrang ! 

The warmth an' grip o' britherhood, 
Wi' jest an' tears, rin thro' his sang. 

Yon shaft a' carven wi' his praise 

Maun some day crum'le to the groun', 

But ilka Spring shall deck the braes 
Whaur flows the tide o' Bonnv Doon. 



POPPIES ON A ROMAN VILLA. 369 

The gowan's bloom, the river's flow, 
Are mair than tribute graved on stane : 

For aye, O Bonny Doon ! sound low 
Thy echoes to his voice alane ! 



POPPIES GROWING ON THE RUINS OF A ROMAN 
VILLA. 

(Morton— Isle of Wight.) 

They come and go, 

Or swift, or slow ! 

This morn, the scarlet poppies glow 
Where Caesar's legions whilom trod — 
Short-lived usurpers of th' Almighty's crown, 
Whose dust may tremble in this thistle-down, 
Or nourish English daisies, that bedeck the sod. 

Come weal, come woe ! 

The poppies glow ; 

Blue gleams the sea as long ago ; 
Blue heavens, arching o'er my head. 
Bent, erst, o'er warriors from sea-sundered climes : 
Thro' the vast silence sound the solemn chimes — 
The tolling knell of Briton, Roman, Norseman, 
dead ! 



24 



37° OUTWARD BOUND. 



OUTWARD BOUND. 



In sunset glow lay earth and sea : 
With glancing sail and pennon gay, 

Only a little year ago 

Swiftly a ship sailed up the bay; 

And in a quiet harbor cast 

Her anchor, — careless to the tide, 

Until the signal came to-day 
To seek the outer waters wide. 

It was a vessel outward bound ; 

No summer-sailing pleasure-bark, 
To drift all day by sunny isles, 

And seek her moorings ere the dark. 

No days are these, for aimless lives, 
For soulless words and idle will ; 

And none but those whose lives are low 
Need miss a grand, heroic thrill. 

To dare to sail by God's own chart, 
Defend the truth and right the wrong. 

To stay by sinking hulks at night, — 
To keep this pledge, O ship, be strong I 

A precious freight is thine, good ship. 
For, standing on the shore to-day. 

I see a mother's hopes and prayers 
Into the future sail away. 



OUTWARD BOUND. 371 

And we who watch with earnest eyes 

May only cry with heart and lip, 
As white sails glisten far away; 

" God speed the ship ! God speed the ship ! " 

Tempests are near when skies are blue, 
Soft glow may swiftly change to gloom, 

And ever, through the gathering night, 
The pirate's deathly shadows loom.' 

But storms may burst and billows crash, 
And shapes of darkness do their best; 

They strive in vain to sink the ship 
Where Jesus has a quiet rest. 

Still, as of old. His word of grace 

Rings high above the billows' roar, 
Hushing the craven cry of doubt:— 

"We sail unto the other shore." 

The other shore ! Oh ! speed thee well, 

Brave ship upon this troubled sea ! 
W1io bears the Z^;-^ shall surely reach 

The haven where he fain would be. 



ZT^ TWO SUNSETS. 



TWO SUNSETS. 



1 watched the winter sunset, and the glow 

Fast fading. It was twilight in the room ; 

Where warm red embers battled with the gloom. 
She raised her head, that had been resting low 
Upon his breast. " If there might only be 

A window in this heart that beats so fast," — 
She softly said — "for then my loving eyes might see 

And catch some bright-wing'd thought, before it 
flitted past!" 

A girlish wish was hers — a daring thought ! 
But perfect love is very brave, we know, 
And, singing, climbs M'here fear could never go. 

Her heart had known no fear, had not been taught 

Sad wisdom. — " Love, were open window there 
For guileless eyes of yours, a day or more " — 
He bent and, smiling answered — " I should ask, 
before 

You looked ; so all things might in order be, and fair." 

Ah ! then I would not care to look at all," 
Her voice sunk low, and in it was a sob, 
Half hushed — I felt my heart rebellious throb — 

She climbed so high, poor child ; and must she fall } 

— And yet he loved her, while he said the truth : 
"Alone before the pitying Lord, laid bare 

We leave our hearts ! Not even for your eyes, my 
Ruth 
Would I forever have an open window there ! " 



TWO SUNSETS. 373 

Her hands grew weary in life's harvesting ; 

And so God took her. Years and years have fled, 

Since the June sunset when I saw htx dead ; — 
The sweet lips mute, that used to laugh and sing. 
I loved her all my life, — He, for a fleeting year ! 

She gave him her whole-hearted tenderness, 
And I, — I was their friend, for both to me were 
dear: 

— Thank God, they neither dreamed that I should 
love her less ! 

No window ever opened in 7ny heart, • 

For her true eyes. In that sad sunset light, 
I knew that God would lead my soul aright, 

Tho' in a desert, thus, to dwell apart ; 

Till love, uncrowned, had won the victory, 
Thro' crucifixion for dear Honor's sake. 
— Wake, Hope ! — In yon sweet Home, no hearts 
will ever break 

With longing for a blessedness that must not be ! 



374 FOREIGN MISSIONS REPORT, 



DECENNIAL REPORT OF THE P FOREIGN" 

MISSIONARY SOCIETY. 

It may seem a little out of order, perhaps, on this 
birthday party of the ten-year-old daughter of our 
Philadelphia mother, that the younger children should 
have equal share with the older ones, in the general 
rejoicing. But on this happy day, the old-fashioned 
rule — that children should be seen and not heard — is 
to be honored in the breach rather than in the obser- 
vance. For we all belong to the blessed family 
whose elder brother is our Lord, Christ ; and the 
weak and the strong, alike, share His loving sympathy 
and blessing. 

As our kind presbyterial secretary bids us, we shall 
strive to tell the story of the past years, with its fail- 
ures and struggles and encouragements. 

On the last day of the year 1873, there was organ- 
ized in our church a Ladies' Aid and Missionary 
Society. It was the duty and pleasure of the Foreign 
Missionary Committee to bring before the Society the 
needs and claims of heathen women and children. 
Although having no distinct organization, we were 
told that we might consider ourselves an auxiliary of 
the Presbyterial Society if we would pledge ourselves 
to give twenty dollars yearly to "Woman's Work." 

Between the years 1873 and 1878, we collected 
money mainly through the envelope-system, our 



FOREIGN MISSIONS REPORT. 375 

yearly contributions varying from thirty to forty dol- 
lars. We found, as do all others, that we grew to 
love, more and more, the cause we worked and 
prayed for ; and we felt sure that, if we could only 
persuade our friends and neighbors in the church to 
join the missionary circle, they would soon be as in- 
terested as ourselves. But this sometimes was hard 
and disheartening. With the wish to relieve mission- 
ary work of its distant vagueness, and to render it a 

vivid reality, we invited Mrs. , of Syria, to visit 

us, and talk to us of the trials and triumphs of labor- 
ers in the Lord's own land. Another year, we in- 
vited Dr. , for years a resident of Yokohama, 

Japan, to show us his fine curios, and to tell us of 
that wonderful land, whose doors have been flung open 
so marvelously for the light of the gospel to enter. 

Little by little, as we look back, we can see and 
"believe that the missionary cause was gaining ground 
among us. It surely did, in the hearts of those who 
met to pray for the coming of the King to His inher- 
itance. Often, I think, we should have faltered and 
lost heart, had it not been for the messages which 
every month brought to us from our toiling sisters in 
heathen lands. " Woman's Work," " The Missionary 
Link," and occasional letters from the field, kept 
us from forgetting the needs of the absent, in the 
midst of very urgent and imperative claims at home. 
Sometimes, a little word, straight from a heathen 
woman's heart, thrilled ours with sympathy, and in- 
tense desire, for Christ's sake, to give those poor dark 
souls the gospel which has made us so blessed. Of- 
ten, often, we have been ashamed of ourselves and 



376 FOREIGN MISSIONS REPORT. 

our half-heartedness, when we knew how much our 
dark-browed sisters who have learned of Christ have 
borne and suffered, for the sake of their and our 
Lord, Jesus. During these five years before our or- 
ganization as a society, we held a little missionary 
prayer-meeting on the first Wednesday of every 
month. I am sure that monthly concert holds a 
warm place in the memory of all who were wont to 
attend it. Some who were most faithful and inter- 
ested have moved away, yet, from time to time, we 
hear they have not forgotten those informal, pleasant 
meetings. One of our number has gone home to our 
Father's house. Perhaps she too remembers it, and 
is glad. 

In March, 1878, the Woman's Foreign Missionary 
Society of P., auxiliary to the Presbyterial Society, 
was organized with a membership of eight ladies. 
Through all the years before and since our organiza- 
tion, our pastor has been the warmest friend and 
most efficient advocate of foreign missions, interested 
not only in such work as must be done by man, but 
also in that which is open to woman, and to woman 
only. 

If we, as a church, are but half alive to our duty 
and blessed privilege in this direction, it can never 
be said that the fault lies at our minister's door. His 
library of current missionary literature, containing 
twenty or more periodicals issued by societies in 
America, Great Britain and the continent, is always 
open to us, when we seek information concerning 
any special field. It makes the glory as well as the 
burden of this work that we are continually proving 



FOREIGN MISSIONS REPORT. 377 

the truth of the Master's words—" The field is the 
world ; " white already to the harvest, but oh ! the 
laborers are so few. 

In looking back four years, and striving to gather 
up memories worthy of mention here, it seems as if 
there had been very little of unusual or peculiar in- 
terest. We have worked together in love ; officers 
and members have been alike interested. We have 
tried to learn something, every month, of the field, 
and the workers forming the subjects suggested for 
our study and prayers. The ladies who have served 
on the committee to prepare the programmes of each 
meeting have grown fond of the work, and have found 
it a great mental and spiritual quickener. The let- 
ters we have received from foreign fields, from mis- 
sionaries among the Dakotas and the Senecas in our 
own country, from India, China, Africa, Siam, Mexico 
and Syria have been very interesting. The visits of 
our former president, our vice-president, and Mrs. 

, formerly of Ningpo, China, have been, not 

simply pleasures, but also blessings to us,— some- 
times coming, too, just at the time we were greatly 
discouraged over our small things. 

The way in which a missionary spirit has sprung up 
among the children and young people is one of the 
strongest encouragements to us. 

-* # =i^ * * * * * 
On looking back, it seems as though we had ac- 
complished very little— not nearly all we might have 
done, if we had been more unselfish, and eager to 
find ways to help the work with prayer and effort. 
But it is done, and we can only pray the Lord to for- 



37^ FOREIGN- MISSIONS REPORT. 

give us for all we have left undone, when we know 
He is waiting to have us carry on this blessed work 
for Him, and He has given us the promise of His 
perpetual presence and blessing. 

Now, for a little while, we see Him not, for, as of 
old, He has gone up into a mountain apart, to pray. 
But He is watching us still, while He sends us on 
His own chosen errand to the lost. Often, our 
hearts echo the homesick words of the disciple 
whom He loved : *' It was now dark, and Jesus was 
not come to them ! " 

From the far-off hill. He sees us toiling in rowing, 
the wind being contrary. At last, when the Lord 
comes to us in the power of His spirit, shall we not 
know His voice, though, in the early twilight, we may 
not see His face .? Is it not now the fourth watch of 
the night, and near the breaking of the day ? Of us, 
may it also be true — " Then they willingly received 
Him into the ship ; " and it should be no marvel to 
us that, " immediately the ship was at the land 
whither they went." No more toiling in rowing 
now; no more contrary wind nor wild sea-waves. 
Surely, surely, though the faith of His disciples be 
sometimes weak, and their courage small, they are on 
the errand dear to their Master's heart ; they are 
bearing Him to the multitudes waiting to touch the 
hem of His garment. 



FOR THE MASTER'S USE. 379 



FOR THE MASTER'S USE. 

(London, November, 188 r.) 

I HAVE jotted down some thoughts from what I 
remember of a sermon we heard in the Congrega- 
tional "Chapel," at Hythe, on the Kentish coast, 
last summer. The pastor. Rev. Valentine Ward, is 
a kindly, gray-haired, scholarly gentleman, whose 
pleasant voice has sometimes enough of the north 
country burr in it to make one fancy him Scotch in- 
stead of northern born. I am sorry not to do justice 
to his sermon in these jottings, but trust its simple, 
earnest teachings may not be without use on the other 
side of the sea. 

2 TIMOTHY, II. 21. 

Scripture illustrations are often very homely, such 
as the humblest and youngest may understand. Take 
this one, for instance. If a maid is called to bring a 
cup, and she brings one that is not clean, it is sent 
away as not fit for the master's use. So, in this verse 
and the context, we are taught what things unfit us 
for the King's service, as well as by what means we 
are made ready for His use. It is a great thing to be 
used by the Lord. Whether we realize it or not, it is 
true that He has appointed unto each of us some 
work. 

It may be that, in the eyes of man it seems very 



380 FOR THE MASTER'S USE. 

humble service, but it is honorable to the Master, if 
we do it for Him. 

But if we are not ready, when He calls us by His 
Spirit and by His providence to the service. He will 
pass us by. Oh ! what an infinite loss and disgrace 
to us ! 

When, a great many years ago, the Spanish Armada 
threatened our countr}'-. Queen Elizabeth called for 
volunteers to repel the invaders. Men sprung to 
arms at the call of their country ; ships and sailors, as 
well as soldiers to man the forts, were offered freely, 
heartily. Hythe did her part bravely ; some say three, 
others say five ships, with sailors for them, were sent 
from our own harbor of the cinque ports. (I thought 
of the scene when, the other day, 1 passed Tilbury, 
where Elizabeth bade Godspeed to England's fleet, 
and used those brave words,, which were no empt}'" 
boast : " That though she was a woman with a 
woman's feeble body, she had the heart of a King, 
aye, of a King of England, too ! ") 

Ah ! was there not shame and disgrace in that day 
for the town and the port which had sent no ships 
nor soldiers in the country's time of peril ? 

But how much more if, when the King of heaven 
calls, we are not ready to fight in His cause, under 
His banner, against the traitor archangel and the 
enemy of man ! 

Prompt obedience and whole-heartedness are char- 
acteristics of a good soldier. It was a grand thing 
for Paul, the aged, to be able to say : " I have fought 
a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept 
the faith ! " 



FOR THE MASTER'S USE. 381 

Do you remember how he answered when the Lord 
Jesus revealed Himself to him on the way to Damas- 
cus ? There was no reluctance, no parley, but the 
sudden, whole-hearted response : " Lord, what will 
Thou have me to do?" Emptied of his pride, 
his Phariseeism, his plans, he is ready for the Mas- 
ter's use. When Ananias received the command to 
go to Saul of Tarsus, and putting his hand upon his 
eyes to restore his sight, the Lord said these words : 
" He is a chosen vessel unto me, to bear my name be- 
fore the Gentiles and kings and the children of 
Israel." 

Let us see what we are taught, first negatively, and 
then positively, about this preparation — this fitness 
for the Master's use — what hinders and what helps it. 

We are taught to shun profane and vain babblings 
and youthful lusts ; to follow righteousness, peace, 
charity. If we have our hearts and our minds filled 
with our own conceits about life, and draw our con- 
clusions and form our plans without reference to the 
teaching of God's word, we shall not even hear His 
call, we shall not be ready for His work when it waits 
for us to do it. 

Again, lust includes, besides the sins to which the 
young are especially exposed, all desires for every- 
thing or anything unlawful and rebuked in the word 
of God. Covetousness is lust. I have been grieved 
with a prevailing tendency I see to discontentment 
with our lot. Each man wishes to be something 
other than he is, or to have something that is denied 
to him. Do you know this hinders our preparation 
for the service of the King ? Those who are seek- 



382 FOR THE MASTER'S USE. 

ing great things for themselves are not those who 
are the humble-hearted, ready for whatever work the 
Lord requires. 

Then we are taught positively what way of life, 
what principles cherished and carried into action, 
are a means of preparation for the Master's use. 

*' Follow after righteousness, faith, charity, peace, 
calling on the Lord out of a pure heart." . . . 

It is a grand thing to be fit for God Himself to 
use, set apart by Him. Pray the Lord to make you 
holy, to keep you from all that grieves the Holy 
Spirit, to make you hate sin, to increase your faith, 
humility and love. 

Our dear Lord loved us so well that he became 
poor for our sakes and came to die for us. He tells us, 
as He loved us, so — mark that — we are to love one 
another. And the fruit of this warm and faithful love 
will surely be peace. We shall then not seek our 
own glory, but God's. The cry of our hearts will be 
that He would use us as He pleases, and that He 
would show us what we can do for Him and for 
those He died to save. What high happiness and 
honor for us if we can in any way advance His 
glory, and hasten the coming of His kingdom in the 
hearts of men ! 

But, oh ! there are some who cannot do this work. 
They are still living in sin and loving it. Oh, don't 
go on so ! Do you not want to be ready for God to 
use you? You say, "Yes, next month I will work 
for Him." But who tells you you will be alive next 
month t Go to Him now and confess your sins. 
Ask Him for His Spirit. You can plead God's prom- 



HAMPTOiX-COURT VI XE. 383 

ise for that. Pray day and night that He would cre- 
ate in you a clean heart, until He gives it to you. He 
never, never turns any one away. Then when your 
sins are forgiven for Christ's sake, pray Him to make 
you a vessel sanctified and fit for the use of the 
King, that henceforth you may live the happy life of 
loving, humbl* service, and to Him shall be praise 
forever and ever. 



HAMPTON-COURT VINE. 



Perhaps it may seem strange, but the one memory 
carried away from Hampton court, which I think will 
survive all the others, was not of the many brilliant 
beauties of the time of Charles IL, nor the finer, 
braver faces of those of William IV.'s day ; not any 
of the numberless relics of Wolsey and his royal mas- 
ter, the gems of the picture gallery, the fine stained 
window, nor the beautiful flower gardens ; not the 
chestnuts of Bushy Park nor the bewildering Maze it- 
self, — but the great Vine, more than a hundred years 
old, and still in apparently immortal vigor. 

I cannot tell you how eloquently it spoke to me of 
our Master and ourselves. After seeing all the pomp 
and glory of the old palace, built in human pride and 
vain-glory, — remembering how all those associated 
with it, — their jealousies and loves, their hatred and 
envy, — had been cut down like the grass, it was a 
sweet relief to come to the long walk leading to the 
House of the Vine. It is a wonderful sight. The 



384 HAMPTON-COURT VINE. 

massive trunk and its far-reaching branches, laden 
with luscious purpling fruit, forming a beautiful leafy 
network over the roof and sides of its transparent 
•dwelling-place. 

We walked silently under the shadow of the Vine, 
noting how carefully the branches were pruned ; how, 
while every branch bore fruit, those nearest the trunk 
were fuller, and heavier and more luxuriant. It was 
a marvel to me that the branches so far away should 
bear fruit at all. No wonder, if they should not 
bear much fruit. But the life of the Vine is in every 
branch, however far away or feeble. As I walked 
back to the entrance, it seemed to me we should all 
pray that we might be of the branches close to the 
Vine ; else how shall we bear much fruit to the glory 
■of the Father? 

There was another little sermon for me in the fact, 
that this is a royal Vine, and all the fruit belongs to 
the sovereign. She may give it to whomsoever she 
will, — to the poor, who never would taste such fruit, 
■except it were bestowed by the royal bounty. But 
no single purpling, juicy grape is there for its own 
glory ; — it is all and only for the King. 



K M. C. A. 385 



Y. M. C. A. 



Sue and Emily walked, one day, 

In the streets of a — nameless — city ; 

They plotted and planned, in their own sweet 
way, 

— Tho', really, I couldn't pretend to say 
That either was wise or witty. 

Suddenly Sue, with her face aglow, 

Exclaimed, as in startled wonder : 
" How stupid I am ! To-night we go 
To the Y. M. C. A., Dick said, you know — 
How could I make such a blunder ? " 

" See what ? Go where ? " cries Em to Sue, 

" And what said Richard, your brother ? 
If you only would finish one sentence through, 
Perhaps I might know what you mean to do. 
One should certainly tell your mother 

You are quite bereft," — with a laugh : — but Sue 

Retorts, without answering glee : 
" I am sure I think you are crazy too ; 
For I only said what is soberly true — 

To-night is the Y. M. C." 

" I give it up," said Em, with a sigh, 

" You have told me three times, already ; 
But I'd like to know, before I die. 
What is to-night, and what I must spy ; — 
My brain's in a hopeless eddy." 
25 



386 CENTENNIAL. 

" Oh ! dear," cried Sue, with a look of despair. 

As she came to the end of her patience — 
— Both girls looked up, to the awning where 
A sign swung gaily: "To-night, the fair 
Of the Y. M. C. A."— And Em said : "There, 
So much for abbreviations." 



CENTENNIAL. 



The shades of eve are falling fast ; 
Ghosts, goblins, ghouls are flitting past , 
My few ideas are all aghast, 
Centennial ! 

No words of mine can fitly tell 
The horror of the mighty spell 
Which, with thee, on our country fell, 
Centennial ! 

Thy brand is on our coats and frocks, 
Beds, blacking, frying-pans, bonds and stocks, 
Tea-parties, hair-dye, babies, blocks, 
Centennial ! 

Oh ! when this nightmare once is o'er, 
Relieved, we'll shout : " Ah ! what a bore 
It was ! I'm glad there is no more 
Centennial." 



BACHELOR'S SOLILOQUY. 387 



BACHELOR'S SOLILOQUY. 



My stars ! this is comfort, 
Though may-be 'tis selfish. 
How happy I am, 
That no womanite elfish 
Is here to disturb me, 
When (tailor's boy dodging) 
Undunn'd I have reached 
Mv bachelor-lodo-ing ! 

This little low chair — 
('Tis not worth the mention) 
Is very convenient 
For ease in extension : 
I bought it at auction, 
Last year in November j 
I thought may-be some one — 
But, fudge ! I remember 
I was really quite glad . 
(No 1 'twas late in October) 
That no one was here, — 
Be she silly or sober, — 
To borrow my meerschaum 
Or steal my nice peaches ; 
To call me a stupid, 
And laugh at my speeches : 
And then, if I venture, 
i'^orlorn and despairing, 
To take my departure, — 



388 BACHELOR'S SOLILOQUY. 

My purpose declaring, — 
My patience ! what torrents 
Of tears and of temper 
(Old Virgil just hit it,— 
Mutabile sef?iper) ! 

They say there are prizes 

(I'm given to doubting) 

Who won't call you horrid, 

Or lapse into pouting : — 

If home comes a fellow 

Cross, may-be, and surly. 

These angels won't tell you 

You're somewhat too early, 

But gladly and gaily 

Will run out to meet you. 

And with a sweet welcome 

Most cheerfully greet you. (muses.) 

A nice little supper 

In a parlor so cosy ! 

I wonder — I wonder 

If that little Josie, — 

The witch with blue ribbons, 

And eyes even bluer, 

Would give me the mitten 

If once I should woo her ? 

I wonder — I wonder — 

The evening is pleasant ; 

My back hair's brushed nicely 

No time like the present ! (Exit.) 



DOUBLE ENTENDRE. 389 



DOUBLE ENTENDRE. 



" Ah, do not go ! " her blue eyes say, 

Caressingly pathetic ; 
He lingers, yet he looks afar, 

Alert and energetic. 

*' Come walk with me along the beacK 
And past the silver maples ; 
I prize no bay like yours, my own, — 
Not e'en the bay of Naples. 

" But no ! you long to leave me still, — 
So obstinate and dogged : 
My will could fetter you, but go — 
Unhindered and unclogged 

"And eager as a young M. D. 
To shine at learned clinique ! 
Alas ! I've learned to think there is 
No sin in being a cynic. 

"Ah, go ! but now you turn, and give 
Me tenderest caresses. 
As one who, sinning all the while, 
Still kisses and confesses." 

" Alas ! my words detain him not, 
My tears are unavailing. 
—Ho ! John, look out; that dog has gone 
And jumped the garden-railing ! " 



390 THE TROOPER'S DEATH SONG. 



THE TROOPER'S DEATH-SONG. 



The weary night is o'er at last ; 
We ride so far, we ride so fast, 

We ride where death is lying ; 
The morning breezes coldly pass — 
Landlord, we'll take another glass, 

Ere dying — ere dying ! 

Thou springing grass, that art so green, 
Shall soon be rosy red, 1 ween, — 

My blood the hue supplying. 
I drink the first glass, sword in hand. 
To him who for the Fatherland 

Lies dying — lies dying. 

}'>ring quickly, now, the second draught, 
For that shall be to Freedom quaffed. 

While Freedom's foes are flying : 
The rest — O Land, our hope and faith ! 
We'd drink to thee with latest breath, 

Tho' dying — tho' dying. 

My Darling! — Ah ! the glass is out — 
The bullets ring ; the riders shout : 

No time for wine or sighing ! 
There ! take my love the shivered glass. 
Charge on the foe ! No joys surpass 

Such dying — such dying ! 



APPENDIX 



(A Letter from Mrs. S. K. B.) 

(1888.) 

At your request, I will try to give some reminis- 
cences of the few months that Mary Lee and I spent 
together in Army Missionary Work. The Wire- 
bridge of memory must be stretched across the space 
of a quarter of a century to do it. Wiiere, and with 
what sliall I commence? — From the very moment at 
which our lives began, through a mutual interest, to 
be interlinked. 

I, returning, with a heart overburdened by the 
memories of a few weeks spent in army nursing, at 
the front, just after McClellan's unfortunate seven 
days' battle, when so many of our soldiers were lying 
captives in the Southern prisons, suffering, starving, 
dying : we had gone within the enemy's lines, and 
brought home to Northern hospitals many of these 
onr suffering, dying brothers— how could I, with such 
memories upon me, take up the ordinary routine of 
daily life ? 

Would I be willing, I was questioned, to go to 
David's Island, where nearly two thousand of our 

(39 



392 APPENDIX. 

sick soldiers were lying in tents, and work for them 
in the " Diet Kitchen," with other ladies who had 
volunteered to do so ? I would, and at once ; and I 
went. 

It was an October twilight of 1862, when I entered 
the low barrack-building named the " Pelham Diet 
Kitchen." David's Island is only an island of 
sand, situated on Long Island Sound, about 21 miles 
from New York City ; no structure of any kind being 
upon it, saving an old frame building, which was used 
by summer picnic parties for taking their refresh- 
ments, after the beautiful sail up the Sound, The 
U. S. Sanitary Commission took possession of this 
barren island, in the name of the government, and 
hundreds of tents were there pitched, for the sick and 
wounded soldiers whom Government was now send- 
ing to Northern hospitals. 

They also erected there four barrack-buildings, 
which were denominated " Ladies' Diet Kitchens," 
to be supervised by four different townships : Yon- 
kers, New Rochelle, Pelham and Glencove. I was 
assigned to the Pelham Division, being acquainted 
with the lady there in charge. After giving me a 
kindly welcome, she showed me to a very small room, 
containing two iron bedsteads and a moiety of furni- 
ture. " This will be your room, which you will share 
with a Miss Lee, of Croton Falls, who has come to 
join in the work." I was too full of the cause, to 
stop and think how desolate an appearance it all 
presented. 

I was glancing over some books which had been 
sent for the soldiers, when a graceful, willowy-figured 



WAR LETTER. 393 

young lady, in deep mourning, entered, to whom 
I was introduced as my room-mate, Miss Lee. She 
was not especially pretty, yet this quiet, low-voiced 
young lady, in deep black, with a wealth of soft, 
natural curls shading her face, interested me greatly 
at once • we seemed to strike a kindred chord from 
the beginning. She had been there several weeks, 
and quite readily took me in charge, to initiate me 
in my new duties. We slept together, and in the 
early morning she said : " we ladies (four) take charge 
of different branches of the work, some staying 
in-doors to prepare delicacies, receive orders from 
the doctors, etc.; some going outside to see what is 
wanted, and do the missionary part of the work. 
Which will be your choice ? " " Oh ! the missionary 
work, by all means; it was that I came for," was my 
reply. " So did I," she responded, " and we will go 
this morning together," which we did. ^ 

And what a labyrinth we found ourselves in ! A 
perfect network of tents on all sides, with no distinc- 
tive landmarks of any kind, for we were living liter- 
ally upon an island of sand. In and out, in and out 
of this labyrinth, this quiet, gentle lady led me, stop- 
pin- now at this tent, now at that, to see what was. 
most needed by those sick and homeless men, that 
the "Diet Kitchens" were able to provide; resting 
from our work only long enough to return to our 
Kitchen for a hasty noonday meal. 

So we worked, until the shadows of evening fell ; 
but we had done something that day, besides visiting 
sick soldiers. We had touched each other, heart to 
heart, and commenced a friendship, one of the dear- 



394 APPENDIX. 

est and noblest (to me certainly) that I ever formed. 
I think it was mutual. 

This was the beginning of many such or similar 
days, each one of which was fraught with some event of 
peculiar or stirring interest. We often talked together 
of the brave boys at the Front (both of us having dear 
brothers doing duty there). Her innermost being 
was stirred within her, as was mine, at their sufferings 
and patient endurance. I can see her now, as we 
talked it all over, as though it were but yesterday — I 
telling her of that which had come directly under my 
own observation, in the few weeks I had spent at the 
Front. Sometimes those deep liquid blue eyes would 
fill with tears ; sometimes they would seem to be 
looking inwards, and neither words nor sighs nor 
tears would come ; then, unexpectedly, she would 
break out into some involuntary burst of patriotism, 
or some almost agonized words of irony, at the ap- 
parently needless delay of the General-in-Chief of the 
Army. But this was only in the evenings, after the 
work was over for the day. After our first day of 
M'ork together, we would only start together — separa- 
ting as soon as we reached the division of tents 
assigned to us. 

The four Kitchens endeavored to make an equal 
division of the tents, in order that, as nearly as possi- 
ble, all might be visited. Ours being the most 
northerly Kitchen, we took the northernmost sections 
of tents. Our work was very laborious, and yet it 
did not seem so to us ; the cause and its needs ap- 
peared so entirely to fill our hearts. Our ladies were 
all of the same stamp, a set of self-denying Christian 



WAR LETTER. 395 

workers, most of them having come from homes of 
luxury, only too glad to volunteer in this service for 
their country, no matter at what personal sacrifice. 

How well I remember saying to Mary Lee, one 
day : " M., to be honest with myself, this work does 
not seem to be a work of self-denial to me." Her 
singularly sweet, expressive eyes looking right into 
mine, with their most penetrating look (it used to 
seem to me as though little rays of light were drop- 
ping from them), she answered : " Oh ! do you feel so 
too ? I am so glad that you do, for it has appeared, 
at times, almost strange to me that I could so forget 
my home, with all its attractions, in the joy that this 
work affords me." It was not very long before we 
began to be accustomed to this labyrinth of tents, 
and to learn to know which were our own especial 
charge. The men in themselves, as a rule, were not 
of any remarkable interest of character, few of them 
having any degree of education (all privates), yet 
there were exceptional cases among them, some who 
interested us in their own individuality — aside from 
the interest they bore as sick soldiers. But if there 
was one man who chanced to be less interesting than 
another, one, in fact, wdiom we would rather turn 
aside from, that would be the very man whom Mary 
Lee would seek out and hold fast to. I remember 
one just such case. The man, though a worthy young 
man, being so uninviting in his personal appearance 
that we all involuntarily turned away from him. One 
day I said : " M., how can you hold so fast to such a 
repulsively uninteresting person ? " ^' Because, dear," 
she answered in her tender way, " he is so almost re- 



39^ APPENDIX. 

pulsive that I fear, if I should give him up, nobody else 
will go to him." 

She was, I think, one of the most entirely truthful 
persons that I ever met. Without striking against 
any one's antagonisms, her own trumpet would give 
forth no uncertain sound, but such quiet, deliberate, 
well-thought-out judgments, that no one could fail to 
see that they proceeded from a well-balanced mind 
and heart, as well as from inner soul-purity. There 
was no shirking of truth or duty, ever, in her case. 
She would neither force herself nor her views upon 
any one, but if her opinions were called for. there 
was no hesitation in giving them, in her clear, im- 
pressive, truthful manner. Her words were both 
deliberate and measured, yet not stilted in the 
slightest degree. At times, she would be so lost in 
thought as to apparently forget her subject ; then we 
would laughingly say: ''Well, M.. are you going to 
sleep ? " " Oh, no, no ! but I am so afraid of giving a 
wrong judgment, ever." Then her sweet smile would 
break forth, like the sun through the clouds. Yet 
she was not the least depressing in her method — 
rather the opposite, but she ever seemed overwhelmed 
with the solemnity of this work, and of life in all its 
bearings. She never would permit herself to question 
God's dealings in any way, no matter how great 
might be her disappointment in His method. I re- 
member questioning her on a certain subject that had 
been a sore trial to her. I spoke of the strange 
mystery of God's dealings in the matter. " Don't, 
please, don't; it is a great mystery, I know, but it 
must be right if He does it." I can seem even yet 



fVA/^ LETTER. 397 

to hear her cheerful, musical laugh, as we would 
relate the amusing experiences that we might chance 
to encounter in our work. 

She was entirely above small or petty jealousies of 
any kind. Her large soul could not comprehend 
6uch things. We ever worked together without an- 
tagonisms of any kind. A case in proof comes clear- 
ly before me, of a young soldier whom I had become 
acquainted with, and was much interested in, and 
at night would tell her of. As much as possible, we 
avoided visiting each other's patients, simply because 
there were so many who needed us, that we were en- 
abled by this method to include a much larger num- 
ber in our visitations. 

The weather had now grown cold, and govern- 
ment had erected large barrack-buildings, which were 
termed Pavilions, to take the place of the tents, each 
Pavilion holding eighty beds ; thus putting the men 
all under proper shelter. We were now, consequent- 
ly, better able than before to systematize our work ; 
could know, by the number of Pavilion and bed, just 
how to reach each man under our care ; we ladies 
only visiting from 9 a. m. until 4 P. m., the other 
hours being used by the doctors for their visits. To 
return to my story, M. said to me, one night, about 
this time : " I have been in such a Pavilion and had 

a conversation with your sick soldier, M B . 

He is a very interesting young fellow " (he was both 
reticent and thoughtful, which traits always pleased 
her). It so chanced that she stopped by his bedside, 
several times, to converse with him, while visiting in 
the Pavilion where he lay. One night she said to me, 



398 APPENDIX. 

with a troubled look : " I have done that to-day 

which rather troubles me, in regard to M 

B ." " What is it ? " I queried. " Well, you know 

that I have chanced to stop at his bedside a number 
of times ; he interests me greatly, and I hope that at 
length he has become interested in religious sub- 
jects." " Well, are you not glad of that ? " " Yes, 
dear, but there is something further which I must tell 
you. You know that we are not all constituted alike, 
and he wishes me, for the future, to visit and con- 
verse with him, instead of you ; he says that I can 
help him as you cannot, and that troubled me, — to 
seem to be trying to take the work out of your hands, 
when you are the one w4io first sought him out, and 
labored patiently with him." " No, no, M., a thou- 
sand times, no. We cannot help our preferences, 
and I am truly thankful that you can help him if I 
cannot, and gladly pass my care of him over into 
your hands." Which 1 did ; she laboring most faith- 
fully with this thoughtful young soldier, until he hoped 
that he saw the truth for himself ; her method of 
reasoning was so clear, so biblical, so persuasive. I 
went, in the meanwhile, to see him, telling him how 
glad I was that he could open his heart to Miss Lee, 
if he could not to me. " I could not bear to hurt 
your feelings," he said ; "but she did seem so well 
able to help me out of my doubts, with her slow, quiet 
earnestness." The boy seemed almost to worship 
this refined, gentle. Christian lady. How could these 
sick, homeless boys help doing so— her goodness and 
purity shone out in her every word and action. 

Thus we lived, talked and worked, day by day, our 



IVJA' LETTER. 399 

love and respect for each other growing daily. The 
large picnic-building, to which 1 have heretofore al- 
luded, had been secured, and improvised for Chapel 
purposes. It was a long w\alk, to reach it from our 
Kitchen home, but with what pleasure we talked over 
our work, on our way, each Sabbath ! One of our 
ladies always presided at the melodeon, and M.'s 
sweet voice never sounded so sweetly as when she 
joined in that music. How fond she was of that 
hymn, which they sang from their little army hymn- 
books : 

" Come sing to nie of heaven, 
When I'm about to die ; 

Sing songs of holy melody 
To waft me to the sky." 

There'll be no parting there ; 

There'll be no parting there; 

In heaven above, where all is love ; 

There'll be no parting there." 

One day, she handed me a large card, with a hymn 
printed upon it, such as they were then using in the 
army, requesting me to give her my opinion of it. 
" It does not strike me as anything remarkable. Why 
do you ask me 1 " " Because I have just been read- 
ing something an Army Chaplain says of that hymn. 
'I have never given out that hymn in any prayer- 
meeting held among the soldiers, that, after the meet- 
ing, some soldier has not come to me to inquire the 
way to Christ, — the result of that hymn.'" "It is 
one of my own composition," she added, "but it 
does not seem to me worthy of having received such 
a blessing; yet I am so rejoiced to hear of it." It 
was called "A Recruitino- Sons:." 



400 APPENDIX. 

There was not the slightest affectation in her mod- 
esty. She was truly humble, ever self depreciating, 
in all she did. One day, she turned to me with a 
wearied look, saying : " I have about given it all up 
— I " — " Given what up, M. ? " " Why, trying to be 

like any of you. First, I tried to be like Miss B , 

but soon gave her up ; then like E C , with a 

like result ; then I tried to be like you, and now, I 
think I shall have to give you up too." "The sooner 
the better, M. ! I think you had better go back 
to the only true model, the Lord Jesus Christ." " I 
think so too; and I will." Truly, she did follow 
closely in the footsteps of Him whom her soul loved. 

So our work went on for months. I can only 
think of it as an oasis of joy, in the wilderness of 
woe by which we were surrounded. Sometimes it 
would be interrupted by a return to our homes, for an 
interval of rest or call of duty; but, each time, com- 
ing back to it with renewed zest, and never wearying 
of the work, or of each other. After a term of 
months, I do not remember exactly how long, various 
duties called us both to our own homes. Most of 
the men with whom we had been laboring had been 
sent to their homes or back to the seat of war. Some 
had gone to their long home. Government was tak- 
ing control of all the hospitals, and David's Island 
was now being used for the sick Southern prisoners of 
war, as well as for our own soldiers. So, one after 
another, we dropped away from the work, others in 
turn filling our places ; and this strongly marked 
epoch in our lives was over. Not so, however, with 
our friendships then and there commenced. We 



WA/? LETTER. \o\ 

kept up a close and warm intimacy, occasionally 
passing a night with each other, and then how all 
alive she would seem, as we talked over the past 
together. 

Just here, I would like to quote from a letter re- 
ceived from one of our disabled soldiers who had 
been sent to his home. He was a man of sad and 
dreamy temperament, yet full of strong manhood — 
had lost an arm, and was much depressed. He strug- 
gled out of darkness into the light, with a conflict 
that seemed to be with Apollyon himself, and became 
a noble specimen of manly Christianity. This, ac- 
companied with his poetic temperament and his fine 
physique, rendered him a valuable coadjutor with us 
in our work. How many hours have both M. and I 
spent pleading with this manly fellow, to find his true 
life in Christ. The letter which I speak of was 
dated, " Cincinnati, Ohio," after the war was over. 
He was speaking of his love of the twilight hour, for 
meditation. " At such an hour," he writes, " and in 
such a place, the soul almost forgets its mortal dwell- 
ing-place in sweet communion with Him ; it has seemed 
to me, at times, as if earth and heaven met and com- 
bined." His letter breathes only of this spirit, and 
he closes with an earnest inquiry concerning his 
friend. Miss Lee. 

Now, let me quote from a letter which I received 
from M. herself, years after the close of the war : 
" Do you know, dear, that I think one of my great 
joys in heaven will be our converse together, over the 
weary, sin-sick souls we together tried to help to the 
dear, loving Saviour." She always wrote, and I 

26 



402 APPEiVDIX. 

think only wrote, when she was so overcharged with 
thought that she could hold it back no longer. I 
think one of the most intense poems written during 
the war, was her poem, "A Voice from Belle Isle." 
An officer at the Front read it from " Littell's Liv- 
ing Age," in which it was published. " I would so 
much like to know," he said, " who wrote that very 
remarkable poem." On my replying that it was Mary 
Lee, he could scarcely be made to believe that a poem 
of so much merit proceeded from her pen. I said to 
her afterward : " Please tell me what induced the writ- 
ing of that intense poem ? " " Why, my whole being 
was so wrought upon, with the sufferings of the starv- 
ing prisoners of war, that I could not eat ; one night, 
sitting down to a plentiful repast, I could not swallow; 
the food seemed to choke me. I arose, left the table, 
went up-stairs and wrote those lines." Surely, that 
was born of soul agony. 

At one time, I was preparing for publication a brief 
record of Army Work, at David's Island and else- 
where. M. came to pass the night with me, and I 
read her some of the manuscript, as she lay on a 
lounge by my side'. Slowly, as I read, she raised her 
head from its resting place, her eyes kindling with a 
light that I always loved to see in them. " Is it ex- 
aggerated, M. ? " " Ex-ag-ger-ated ? No, no, no ; 
but I seem to be living it all over again." That was 
enough ; I needed no further criticism. 

She frequently would talk to me of her home, of 
her almost idolized, deceased parents, her fondly 
loved brothers and sisters. At one time, she was 
telling me of the death-bed scenes of a dear sister, 



IVAK LETTER. 403 

who had recently passed away. Then she dwelt upon 

the aloneness of each individual soul. " C ," 

she said, " when dying, called some member of the 
household to her bedside, saying : ' Take hold of my 
hand, I want one of you to hold me fast, I am so 
weak.' But soon, she dropped the hand that tenderly 
clasped her own, saying : ' No, no, I must go alone — 
alone — with my Saviour ; you cannot, one of you, go 
with me. I must not look to human help now ; I 
must go alone.' " 

After her young brother, who had gone on a voy- 
age for his health, went down at sea, she talked to 
me of it, with a pathos all her own. She was ever 
a great lover of nature, especially as it is manifested 
in the ocean. "But," she said, "I cannot bear 
to look at the ocean, now. I cannot seem to see 
those great black waves, without seeming also to see 
my dear brother being swallowed up by them, all 
alone. I have tried to hope that some passing vessel 
had rescued him, and that he would yet be heard 
from ; but now I have almost given up even that 
faint hope, and it seems as though I could not bear 
it." And her deep blue eyes, with their far-away 
look, would fill with tears, no longer able to be held 
back. Nor could she find any comfort until she 
stayed herself upon the thought, that Christ, his lov- 
ing Saviour, met him, His own dear child, and clasped 
him in His own loving arms ; no deep waters being 
able to engulf his soul. 

And now, those far-away, blue eyes, her soul's eyes, 
as they ever seemed to me, are gazing upon the King 



404 APPENDIX. 

himself in "His ain Countree." To use her own 
sweet words : 

" I've His gude word o' promise that, some gladsome day, the 
King 
To His ain royal palace His banished hame will bring : 
Wi' een an wi' hearts running owre, we shall see 
The King in His beauty, in our ain countree." 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 

[Includes statement of names (where known) of publishers, 
by whose courtesy articles heretofore printed are now repro- 
duced ; also approximate dates of publication ; and dates of 
composition of certain of the other contents.] 



Acid Test, The {Illustrated Christian Weekly, May, 1879) 165 
Adjai, The Story of . . . . . .146 

Andreas Hlaverti . . . . .152 

Appendix ( War- Letter) . . . . -391 

At Eventide ...... 353 

Bachelor's Soliloquy (186 — ), . . . -387 

Balsam — Balm — Everlasting, .... 354 

Bonny Doon (1887),. . . . . .368 

Buenos Ayres {South America, 1870), . . . 319 

Casting, or Carrying (///. Christian Weekly, Sept. 1885), 170 
Centennial (1876), ..... 386 

Chamouny and the Mer de Glace {Presbyterian Journal, 

June, 1887), 83 

China-Town, A morning in the Homes of (187 — ), . 156 

Christ in Art (///. Christian Weekly, April, 1886), . 175 

(405) 



4o6 



INDEX. 



Christmas Carol, A .... . 

Christmas Card, How a, saved a Life (///. Chr'n. Weekly 

Dec, 1878), 

Cum Scuto, vel Super (1862), ... 

Double Entendre (1874), .... 

Dumb (1876), ..... 

Eighteen hundred and sixty-five, 

England at Garfield's Grave {Pi-esb. Jour., Sept., 1881), 

Fackel Zug, The {Germany, 1883), 

Garfield (1881), .... 

Gerty Morse, How, Said " Yes," 

Gifford's Wife, .... 

Give Place ..... 

Goldilocks and Silver Hair, 

Guy Fawkes' Day {Presb. Jour., Dec, 1881), . 

Hampton-Court Vine, 

He Carries them up Hill [N. V. Observer, March, 187 1 

He Saved Others ; Himself He Cannot Save, 

Homeless (1864), ..... 

Hope Archer's Parable (///. Chr'ju Weekly, Aug., 1878) 

Hyde Park (Zi7«^f?«, 1881), .... 

I am No Poet {i860), 

I Surrender, . . • ... 

Impotence (1861), .... 

Indelible Ink, ..... 

Jerusalem Chamber, The [London, 1881), . 

Joyful Sufferer, The {Presb. Bd. of Publication, 186—), 



354 



INDEX. 



407 



Last Thing, The (1876), .... 360 

Lift up the Christ [American Messenger, Nov., 1885), . 338 

Links (/"r^j^^./*?/^?-., July, 1882), ... 3 

Lion and the Adder, The, ..... 333 

Little Helpers, . . . . . -331 

Lord-Mayor's Day {London, 1881), . . . .316 

Marburg on the Lahn (C-frwa/z;/, 1883), . . 311 

Master's Use, For the [Fresb. /our., Nov. 1881), . . 379 

Ministering, ...... 3C3 

Mission, A Domestic, ..... 280 

Missions Report, Foreign (188 — ), .... 374 

My Jericho {186— ), . ..... 339 

My Joy, 324 

My Love {1864), ...... 355 

My Rest, ....... 3^ 

Night Watch, A, . . . . . .358 

Nineteenth Century Barrel of Meal, A (///. C/ir'n. IVeekly), 195 

One Faith, ...... 331 

Outward Bound (1865), ..... 370 

Pearls and Pebbles (1863), .... 365 

Pine Knots from Old Carolina (1885), . . . 306 

Poppies growing on ruins of Roman villa {England, 1885), 369 
Prayer-Meeting Varnish, . . . .221 

Redemption of Strays {Am. Messenger, April, 1878), . 202 

Rifted Cloud, The, ..... 346 

Rio to Petropolis, From {South America, 1870), . . 318 



4o8 INDEX. 

Soldier ! A Letter for You {A. D. F. Randolph, 6- Co. ; 

A leaflet, during the zuar, id>6 — ), . . . 294 

Soldier's Comfort, The {Presb. Bd. of Publication; A 

leaflet, during the war, iZd — ), . . . 289 

Southern Violets, . . . . . 121 

Spending-Money (///. Chr'n. Weekly, May, 1881), . 204 

Spes Salutis (1862), ..... 346 

Spiritual Malaria (///. Christian Weekly, Oct., 1878), . 214 
Story for Little Nan, A (///. Christian Weekly, Oct., 187 1 ), 216 
Sunny Memories of Mentone [France, 186 — ), . . 320 

Syrian Children, ...... 343 

Thro' Gloom to Glory (1859), . . . 362 

Thro' My Skylight (///. Chr'n. Weekly, June, 1886), . 342 

Thy Homesick Child [A. D. F. Randolph 6- Co. ; " Way- 
side Hymns,'" i860), ..... 336 

Trooper's Death Song, The (186— ) . . -390 

Two Sunsets (188— ), . . • • -372 

Under the Snows (1862), . . . .366 

Unto You, Gentiles, . . . . • -326 

Week of Prayer, An Incident of the (///. Chr'?/. Wr<klv, 

July, 1884), 188 

When the Even was Come, . . . .275 

Who and Whence ? . . . . • • 340 

Wind and the Whirlwind, The, . . . 258 

Y. M. C. A. (1876), ... . • 385 




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